PR 

5192 
•55 



A SICILIAN STORY, 



DIEGO DE MONTILLA, 



OTHER POEMS. 



BARRY CORNWALL. 



■ 




H s®2> 



LONDON: 
C. AND J.OLLIER, VERE-STREET, BOISD-STREET. 

1820. 



Thrift 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The outlines of the ' Sicilian Story' and 
of the ' Falcon' may be found in the Deca- 
neron. 

1 have attempted two poems in the octave 
rhyme. It is, with all its apparent ease, 
and indeed principally on that account,) a 
difficult style ; and it is not without some 
hesitation that I lay these poems before the 
public. 



ERRATA. 

Page 77, last line, for marry to wish, read marry to his irisk. 
Page 161, line 4, for icater read waters. 



CONTENTS. 



ASICILIAN STORY Page 1 

The Worship of Dian 29 

Gyges 39 

The Death of Acis 61 

The Falcon, a Dramatic Sketch 71 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

An Invocation 93 

On the Statue of Theseus 96 

" When shall we three meet again " 97 

Lines written on the Death of a Friend 100 

Marcelia 1 02 

Portraits 1 05 

Lines written under an Engraving of Milton 108 

To a Star 110 

Song, " Sleep my Leila " 112 

Song, a Maid to her Lover 114 

Serenade ]15 

A Dryad's Haunt 116 



The Last Day ofTippoo Saib Page 119 

Song , 122 

Song 123 

Sonnets — Spring 124 

Summer , 125 

Autumn „ „ 126 

Winter 127 

Written after seeing Mr. Macready in Rob Roy 128 

A Stormy Night 129 

A Vision 130 

DIEGO DE MONTILLA, a Spanish Tale 131 



A SICILIAN STORY. 



i 



DEDICATORY SONNET. 



TO 



It may be that the rhymes I bring to thee 
(An idle offering, Beauty,) are my last : 
Therefore, albeit thine eye may never cast 
Its light on them, 'tis fit thine image be 
Allied unto my song ; for silently 
Thou may'st connect the present with the past. 
? Tis fit, for Saturn now is hurrying fast, 
And thou may'st soon be nothing, ev'n to me, 
Be this the record then of pleasant hours 
Departed, when beside the river shaded 
I walk'd with thee, gazing my heart away, 
And, from the sweetest of your garden flowers, 
Stole only those which on your bosom faded. 
O, why has happiness so short a day ! 



A SICILIAN STORY, 



' Nunc scio quid sit amor." 



I. 



There is a spirit within us, which arrays 
The thing we doat upon with colourings 
Richer than roses— brighter than the beams 
Of the clear sun at morning, when he flings 
His showers of light upon the peach, or plays 
With the green leaves of June, and strives to dart 
Into some great forest's heart, 
And scare the sylvan from voluptuous dreams. 
There is a spirit that comes upon us when 
Boyhood is gone, before we rank as men, 
Before the heart is canker'd, and before 
We lose or cast away that innocent feeling 
That gives life all its freshness. Never more 
May I feel this, and yet the times have been 



6 A SICILIAN STORY. 

I have seen love in burning beauty stealing 

O'er a young cheek and run the bright veins through, 

And light up, like a heaven, eyes of such blue 

As in the summer skies was never seen, 

I was an idler then, and life was green, 

And so I loved and languished, and became 

A worshipper of the boy-god's fickle flame, 

And did abase myself before him : he 

Laugh'd outright at my fierce credulity, 



II. 



And yet, at times, the recollection's sweet, 

And the same thought that pleased me haunts me still, 

Chief at the hour when day and evening meet, 

And twilight, shadowy magician ! calls 

Shapes unsubstantial from his cloudy halls, 

And ranks them out before us 'till they fill 

The mind with things forgotten. Valley and hill, 

The air, the dashing ocean, the small rill, 

The waving wood and the evanishing sky, 

Towr'd this subduing of the soul, ally 

Their pow'rs, and stand forth a resistless band. 

If then the elements league against us, and 

The heart rebel against the mind's command, 



A SICILIAN STORY. 

Why — we must sink before these sickly dreams 
Until the morning comes, and sterner themes 
Do fit us through this stormy world to sail. 
Farewell to love ; and yet, 7 tis woven in my tale. 



III. 

A story (still believed through Sicily,) 
Is told of one young girl who chose to die 
For love. Sweet ladies, listen and believe, 
If that ye can believe so strange a story, 
That woman ever could so deeply grieve, 
Save she who from Leucadia's promontory 
Flung herself headlong for the Lesbian boy, 
(Ungrateful he to work her such annoy,) 
But time hath, as in sad requital, given 
A branch of laurel to her, and some bard 
Swears that a heathen god or goddess gave 
Her swan-like wings wherewith to fly to heaven : 
And now, at times, when gloomy tempests roar 
Along the Adriatic, in the wave 
She dips her plumes, and on the watery shore 
Sings as the love-craz'd Sappho sung of yore. 



A SICILIAN STORY. 



IV. 



One night a masque was held within the walls 

Of a Sicilian palace : the gayest flowers 

Cast life and beauty o'er the marble halls. 

And, in remoter spots, fresh waterfalls 

That 'rose half hidden by sweet lemon bowers 

A low and silver-voiced music made : 

And there the frail perfuming woodbine strayed 

Winding its slight arms 'round the cypress bough, 

And as in female trust seemed there to grow, 

Like woman's love 'midst sorrow flourishing : 

And every odorous plant and brighter thing 

Born of the sunny skies and weeping rain, 

That from the bosom of the spring 

Starts into life and beauty once again, 

Blossom'd ; and there in walks of evergreen, 

Gay cavaliers and dames high-born and fair, 

Wearing that rich and melancholy smile 

That can so well beguile 

The human heart from its recess, were seen, 

And lovers full of love or studious care 

Wasting their rhymes upon the soft night air, 

And spirits that never till the morning sleep. 

And, far away, the mountain Etna flung 



A SICILIAN STORY. < 

Eternally its pyramid of flame 

High as the heav'ns, while from its heart there came 

Hollow and subterranean noises deep, 

And all around the constellations hung 

Their starry lamps, lighting the midnight sky, 

As to do honour to that revelry. 



V. 



Yet was there one in that gay shifting crowd 
Sick at the soul with sorrow : her quick eye 
Ran restless thro' the throng, and then she bowed 
Her head upon her breast, and one check'd sigh 
Breath'd sweet reproach 'gainst her Italian boy, 
The dark-eyed Guido whom she lov'd so well : 
(O how he loved Sicilian Isabel !) 
Why came he not that night to share the joy 
That sate on every face, and from her heart 
Bid fear and all,, aye all but hope, depart. 
For hope is present happiness : Shapes and things 
That wear a beauty like the imperial star 
Of Jove, or sunset clouds or floating dews, 
And like an arch of promise shine afar, 
When near cast off their skiey colourings, 
And all their rainbow-like and radiant hues 

b 3 



10 A SICILIAN STORY. 

Are shadowy mockeries and deceptive fire. 

But Hope ! the brightest of the passionate choir 

That thro' the wide world range, 

And touch with passing fingers that most strange 

And curious instrument the human heart, 

Ah ! why didst thou so soon from Isabel depart? 



VI. 



Dark Guido came not all that night, while she 

His young and secret bride sate watching there, 

Pale as the marble columns : She search'd around 

And 'round, and sicken'd at the revelry, 

But if she heard a quick or lighter bound 

Half 'rose and gazed, and o'er her tearful sight 

Drew her white hand to see his raven hair 

Come down in masses like the starless night, 

And 'neath each shortened mask she strove the while 

To catch his sweet inimitable smile, 

Opening such lips as the boy Hylas wore ; 

(He whom the wild and wanton Nymphs of yore 

Stole from Alcmena's Son :) But one and then 

Another passed, and bowed, and passed again. 

She looked on all in vain : at last more near 

A figure came and, whispering in her ear, 



A SICILIAN STORY. 

Asked in a hoarse and quick and bitter tone, 

Why there she sate alone, 

The mistress of the feast, while all passed by 

Unvvelcomed even by her wandering eye. 

It was her brother's voice — Leoni ! — no, 

It could not be that he would jeer her so. 

He breathed a name ; 'twas ' Guido' : tremblingly 

She sate and shrank from his inquiring eye, 

But hid the mighty secret of her soul. 

Again — ah ! then she heard her terrible doom 

Sound like a prophecy, and to her room 

Like a pale solitary shade she stole. 



VII. 

And now to tell of him whose tongue had gained 

The heart of Isabel. 'Twas said, he came 

(And he was of aline of fame) 

From Milan where his father perished. 

He was the last of all his race, and fled 

To haughty Genoa where the Dorias reigned : 

A mighty city once, tho' now she sleeps 

Amidst her amphitheatre of hills, 

Or sits in silence by her dashing deeps, 

And not a page in living story fills. 



12 A SICILIAN STORY. 

He had that look which poets love to paint. 

And artists fashion, in their happier mood, 

And budding girls when first their dreamings faint 

Shew them such forms as maids may love. He stood 

Fine as those shapely Spirits heaven descended, 

Hermes or young Apollo, or whom she 

The moon-lit Dian, on the Latmian hill, 

When all the woods and all the winds were still, 

Kissed with the kiss of immortality. 

And in his eye where love and pride contended, 

His dark, deep-seated eye, there was a spell 

Which they who love and have been lov'd can tell. 

And she — but what of her, his chosen bride, 

His own, on whom he gazed in secret pride, 

And loved almost too much for happiness ? 

Enough to say that she was born to bless. 

She was surpassing fair : her gentle voice 

Came like the fabled music that beguiles 

The sailor on the waters, and her smiles 

Shone like the light of heaven, and said ' rejoice ! ; 



A SICILIAN STORY. 



VIII. 



That morn they sat upon the sea-beach green ; 
For in that land the sward springs fresh and free 
Close to the ocean, and no tides are seen 
To break the glassy quiet of the sea : 
And Guido, with his arm 'round Isabel, 
Unclasped the tresses of her chesnut hair, 
Which in her white and heaving bosom fell 
Like things enamour'd, and then with jealous air 
Bade the soft amorous winds not wanton there ; 
And then his dark eyes sparkled, and he wound 
The fillets like a coronet around 
Her brow, and bade her rise and be a queen. 
And oh ! 'twas sweet to see her delicate hand 
Pressed 'gainst his parted lips, as tho' to check 
In mimic anger all those whispers bland 
He knew so well to use, and on his neck 
Her round arm hung, while half as in command 
And half entreaty did her swimming eye 
Speak of forbearance, 'till from her pouting lip 
He snatched the honey-dews that lovers sip, 
And then, in crimsoning beauty, playfully 
She frowned, and wore that self-betraying air 
That women loved and nattered love to wear. 



A SICILIAN STORY, 



IX. 



Oft would he, as on that same spot they lay 

Beneath the last light of a summer's day, 

Tell (and would watch the while her stedfast eye,) 

How on the lone Pacific he had been, 

When the Sea Lion on his watery way 

Went rolling thro' the billows green, 

And shook that ocean's dead tranquillity : 

And he would tell her of past times, and where 

He rambled in his boyhood far away, 

And spoke of other worlds and wonders fair 

And mighty and magnificent, for he 

Had seen the bright sun worshipp'd like a god 

Upon that land where first Columbus trod ; 

And travelled by the deep Saint Lawrence' "tide, 

And by Niagara's cataracts of foam, 

And seen the wild deer roam 

Amongst interminable forests, where 

The serpent and the savage have their lair 

Together. Nature there in wildest guise 

Stands undebased and nearer to the skies; 

And 'midst her giant trees and waters wide 

The bones of things forgotten, buried deep, 

Give glimpses of an elder world, espied 



A SICILIAN STORY. 

By us but in that fine and dreamy sleep, 
When Fancy, ever the mother of deep truth, 
"Breathes her dim oracles on the soul of youth. 



Her sleep that night was fearful, — O, that night ! 

If it indeed was sleep : for in her sight 

A form (a dim and waving shadow) stood, 

And pointed far up the great Etna's side, 

Where, from a black ravine, a dreary wood 

Peeps out and frowns upon the storms below, 

And bounds and braves the wilderness of snow. 

It gazed awhile upon the lonely bride 

With melancholy air and glassy eye, 

And spoke — ' Awake and search yon dell, for I 

' Tho' risen above my old mortality, 

i Have left my mangled and unburied limbs 

' A prey for wolves hard by the waters there, 

' And one lock of my black and curled hair, 

i That one I vowed to thee my beauty, swims 

< Like a mere weed upon the mountain river ; 

{ And those dark eyes you used to love so well 

i (They loved you dearly, my own Isabel,) 

* Are shut and now have lost their light for ever. 



16 A SICILIAN STORY. 

' Go then unto yon far ravine, and save 

' Your husband's heart for some more quiet grave 

' Than what the stream and withering winds may lend, 

i And 'neath the basil tree we planted, give 

' The fond heart burial, so that tree shall live 

' And shed a solace on thy after days : 

1 And thou — but oh ! I ask thee not to tend 

' The plant on which thy Guido loved to gaze, 

4 For with a spirit's power I see thy heart.' 

He said no more, but with the dawning day 

Shrunk, as the shadows of the clouds depart 

Before the conquering sun-beams, silently. 

Then sprung she from the pillow where she lay, 

To the wild sense of doubtful misery : 

And when she 'woke she did obey the dream, 

And journey'd onwards to the mountain stream 

Tow'rd which the phantom pointed, and she drew 

The thorns aside which there luxuriant grew, 

And with a beating heart descended where 

The waters washed, it said, its floating hair. 



A SICILIAN STORY. 



XL 



It was a spot like those romancers paint, 

Or painted when of dusky knights they told 

Wandering about in forests old. 

When the last purple colour was waxing faint" 

And day was dying in the west : the trees 

(Dark pine and chesnut and the dwarfed oak 

And cedar) shook their branches, 'till the shade 

Look'd like a living spirit, and as it played 

SeenTd holding dim communion with the breeze : 

Below, a tumbling river rolled along, 

(Its course by lava rocks and branches broke) 

Singing for aye its fierce and noisy song ; 

And there on shattered trunks the lichens grew 

And covered, with their golden garments, death ; 

And when the tempest of November blew 

The Winter trumpet, 'till its failing breath 

Went moaning into silence, every green 

And loose leaf of the piny boughs did tell 

Some trembling story of that mountain dell. 



A SICILIAN STORY. 



XII. 



That spirit is never idle that doth 'waken 

The soul to sights and contemplations deep, 

Even when from out the desert's seeming sleep 

A sob is heaved that but the leaves are shaken ; 

But when across its frozen wastes there comes 

A rushing wind, that chills the heart and bears 

Tidings of ruin from those icy domes, 

The cast and fashion of a thousand years, 

It is not for low meanings that the soul 

Of Nature, starting from her idlesse long, 

Doth walk abroad with death, and sweep among 

The valleys where the avalanches roll. 

'Tis not to speak of ' Doubt' that her great voice, 

Which in the plains doth bid the heart rejoice, 

Comes sounding like an oracle. Amidst men 

There are no useless marvels : Ah ! why then 

Cast on the wonder-working nature shame, 

Or deem that, like a noisy braggart, she 

(In all things else how great and freed from blame) 

Once in an age should shout i A mystery!' 



• A SICILIAN STORY 1 

XIII. 

But for my story — Down the slippery sod 
With trembling limbs, and heart that scarcely beat, 
And catching at the brambles, as her feet 
Sunk in the crumbling earth, the poor girl trod ; 
And there she saw — Oh ! till that moment none 
Could tell (not she) how much of hope the sun 
And cheerful morning, with its noises, brought, 
And how she from each glance a courage caught, 
For light and life had scattered half her fright, 
And she could almost smile on the past night ; 
So, with a buoyant feeling, mixed with fear 
Lest she might scorn heav'n's missioned minister, 
She took her weary way and searched the dell, 
And there she saw him. — dead. Poor desolate child 
Of sixteen summers, had the waters wild 
No pity on the boy you loved so well ! 
There stiff and cold the dark-eyed Guido lay, 
His pale face upwards to the careless day, 
That smiled as it was wont ; and he was found 
His young limbs mangled on the rocky ground, 
And, 'midst the weltering weeds and shallows cold, 
His black hair floated as the phantom told, 
And like the very dream his glassy eye 
Spoke of gone mortality, 



A SICILIAN STORY. 



XIV. 



She stared and laugh'd aloud like one whose brain 
Is shocked o' the sudden : then she looked again ; 
And then she wept. At last — but wherefore ask 
How, tremblingly, she did her bloody task ? 
She took the heart and washed it in the wave, 
And bore it home and placed it midst wild flowers, 
Such as he loved to scent in happier hours, 
And 'neath the basil tree she scoop'd a grave, 
And therein placed the heart, to common earth 
Doom'd, like a thing that owned not human birth. 

XV. 

And the tree grew, and grew ; and brighter green 
Shot from its boughs than she before had seen, 
And softly with its leaves the west winds played : 
And she did water it with her tears, and talk 
As to a living spirit, and in the shade 
Would place it gently when the sun did walk 
High in his hot meridian, and she prest 
The boughs (which fell like balm) upon her breast. 
She never plucked a leaf nor let a weed 
Within the shadow of its branches feed, 



A SICILIAN STORY. 

But nursed it as a mother guards her child, 
And kept it shelter'd from the ' winter wild :' 
And so it grew beyond its fellows, and 
Tow'red in unnatural beauty, waving there 
And whispering to the moon and midnight air, 
And stood a thing unequalled in the land. 



XVI. 

But never more along her favorite vale, 
Or by the village paths or hurrying river, 
Or on the beach, when clouds are seen to sail 
Across the setting sun, while waters quiver 
And breezes rise to bid the day farewell- 
No more in any bower she once loved well, 
Whose sound or silence to the ear could tell 
Aught of the passionate past, the pale girl trod : 
Yet Love himself, like an invisible god, 
Haunted each spot, and with his own rich breath 
Filled the wide air with music sweet and soft, 
Such as might calm or conquer Death, if Death 
Could e'er be conquered, and from aloft 
Sad airs, like those she heard in infancy, 
Fell on her soul and filled her eyes with tears, 



fa A SICILIAN STORY. 

And recollections came of happier years 
Thronging from all the cells of memory. 
All her heart's follies she remembered then, 
How coy and rash — how scornful she had been, 
And then how tender, and how coy again, 
And every shifting of the burning scene 
That sorrow stamps upon the helpless brain. 



XVII. 

Leoni— (for this tale had ne'er been told 
By her who knew alone her brother's guilt,) 
Leoni, timorous lest the blood he spilt 
Should rise in vengeance from its secret hold, 
And come abroad and claim a sepulchre ; 
Or, haplier, fancying that the lie he swore 
" That Guido sailed and would return no more 
Was disbelieved and not forgot by her ; 
Or that she had discovered where he lay 
Before his limbs had withered quite away, 
Or — but whate'er it was that moved him then, 
He dug and found the heart, unperished; 
For she, to keep it unlike the common dead, 
Had wound it 'round with many a waxen line, 



A SICILIAN STORY, 23 

And bathed it with a curious medicine : 
He-found it where, like a great spell, it lay, 
And cursed and cast it to the waves away. 



XVIII. 

That day the green tree wither'd, and she knew 

The solace of her mind was stol'n and gone : 

And then she felt that she was quite alone 

In the wide world ; so, to the distant woods 

And caverned haunts, and where the mountain floods 

Thunder unto the silent air, she flew. 

She flew away, and left the world behind, 

And all that man doth worship, in her flight ; 

All that around the beating heart is twined ; 

Yet, as she looked farewell to human kind, 

One quivering drop arose and dimm'd her sight, 

The last that frenzy gave to poor distress. 

And then into the dreary wilderness 

She went alone, a craz'd, heart-broken thing ; 

And in the solitude she found a cave 

Half hidden by the wild-brier blossoming, 

Whereby a black and solitary pine, 

Struck by the fiery thunder, stood, and gave 

Of pow'r and death a token and a sign : 



24 A SICILIAN STORY. 

And there she lived for months : She did not heed 
The seasons or their change, and she would feed 
On roots and berries as the creatures fed 
Which had in woods been born and nourished. 



XIX. 

Once, and once only was she seen, and then 
The chamois hunter started from his chace, 
And stopped to look a moment on her face, 
And could not turn him to his sports again. 
Thin Famine sate upon her hollow cheek, 
And settled Madness in her glazed eye 
Told of a young heart wrong'd and nigh to break, 
And, as the spent winds waver ere they die, 
She to herself a few wild words did speak, 
And sung a strange and broken melody ; 
And ever as she sung she strew'd the ground 
With yellow leaves that perished 'ere their time, 
And well their fluttering fall did seem to chime 
With the low music of her song : the sound 
Came like a dirge filling the air around, 
And this (or like) the melancholy rhyme. 



A SICILIAN STORY. 



There is a spirit stands by me : 

It comes by night, it comes by day, 

And when the glittering lightnings play, 

Its look is pale and sad to see. 

'Tis he — to whom my brother gave 

A red unconsecrated grave. 



I hear him when the breezes moan, 
And, when the rattling thunders talk, 
I hear him muttering by me walk, 
And tell me I am i quite alone. 7 
It is the daemon of the dead, 
For all that's good hath upwards fled. 

3. 

It is a daemon which the wave 
Hath cast abroad to scare my soul ; 
Yet wherefore did the waters roll 
So idly o'er his hasty grave ? 
Was the sad prayer I uttered then 
Unheard, — or is it due again ? 



A SICILIAN STORY. 



Is 't not enough that I am here, 
Brainstruck and cold and famished, 
A mean remove above the dead, — 
But must my soul be wild with fear 
As sorrow, now that hope is gone 
And I am lost and left alone ? 



They told me, when my days were young, 
That I was fair and born to reign, 
That hands and hearts were my domain, 
And witchery dwelt upon my tongue : 
And now — but what is this to me 
Struck on the rock of memory ? 



And yet at times T dream — aye yet, 
Of vanished scenes and golden hours, 
And music heard in orange bowers, 
(For madness cannot quite forget) 
And love, breath'd once to me alone, 
In sighs, and many a melting tone. 



A SICILIAN STORY. 



Then curious thoughts, and floating things 

Saved from the deluge of the brain, 

Pass with perplexity and pain : 

Then darkness, deaths, and murderings, — 

And then unto my den I hie, 

And vainly, vainly pray to die. 



XX. 

At last she wandered home. She came by night. 
The pale moon shot a sad and troubled light 
Amidst the mighty clouds that moved along. 
The moaning winds of Autumn sang their song, 
And shook the red leaves from the forest trees ; 
And subterranean voices spoke. The seas 
Did rise and fall, and then that fearful swell 
Came silently which seamen know so well ; 
And all was like an Omen. Isabel 
Passed to the room where, in old times, she lay, 
And there they found her at the break of day ; 
Her look was smiling, but she never spoke 
Or motioned, even to say — her heart was broke : 

c2 



28 A SICILIAN STORY. 

Yet in the quiet of her shining eye 
Lay death, and something we are wont to deem 
(When we discourse of some such mournful theme,) 
Beyond the look of mere mortality. 



XXI. 

She died—yet scarcely can we call it death 

When Heaven so softly draws the parting breath ; 

She was translated to a finer sphere, 

For what could match or make her happy here ! 

She died, and with her gentle death there came 

Sorrow and ruin, and Leoni fell 

A victim to that unconsuming flame, 

That burns and revels on the heart of man ; 

Remorse, — This is the tale of Isabel, 

And of her love the young Italian. 



THE WORSHIP OF MAN. 



THE WORSHIP OF DIAN. 



SHEPHERDS. WOMEN. 

First Shepherd. 

Come hither shepherds. See, Apollo dies. 
Some hours ago and who so bright as he ? 
His proud smile turned the waves to silver, and 
The halt-ripe fruit vermillion'd : It drew sweets 
From herb and flower, and on the living earth 
Shower'd beauty. Man was pleas'd and laughed to find 
His blood run quicker and his heart grow warm, 
And maids grew joyous, for they knew their cheeks 
Wore then a livelier red : and see, he dies. 



Second Shepherd. 

But we must now forget him ; for behold, 
Dian is coming. Mark ! 



32 THE WORSHIP OF DIAN. 

First Shepherd. 

How fierce she glares ! 

Thus when in angry mood she stretches forth 
Her arm above the waters, doth she look ; 
And as she bares her breast the wanton waves 
Rebel 'gainst Neptune's mastery, and leap up 
Far as their silver chains will reach, to do 
The night-queen homage. Then, the mariner 
Who hath forgot his home-confined bride, 
And maid whose thoughts were not of chastity, 
The merchant who hath ventures on the sea 
And never prayed her help against the storms, 
Do feel her wrath. 



Second Shepherd. 

Look ! who is there, Alexas — 
There, tow'rd the East ? 



First Shepherd. 
Oh ! Pan is by vonder brook : 



THE WORSHIP OF DIAN. 33 

Thus ever thro' the heats of Summer he 
Offers his steaming incense to the moon ; 
For which she chafes his burning brow, and gives 
To his parch'd herbs a freshness. Every thing 
That owns his sway then honours her : rivers which 
Grew hot i' the sun and silent slipp'd away, 
Resume their natural pow'rs and celebrate 
With music the first coming of the night. 
The solemn owl speaks and the crickets sing, 
And from the springing grass there comes a noise, 
As if to tell that the earth slumber'd not. 
The nightingale alone seems to complain, 
Yet sweetly, and the wanton Zephyrus steals 
Rustling amongst the forest leaves, and plays 
With the young buds and from the hawthorn branch 
Shakes half its bloom — but she unclouds her brow, 
And looks propitious. Kneel, ye virgins, kneel ! 
And stretch your white arms tow'rd the bright'ning sky, 
And sing the hymn to Dian. Goddess, hear ! 



Hymn. 

Dian ! — We seek thee in this tranquil hour ; 
We call thee by thy names of power ; 
Lucina ! first, (that tender name divine, 

c 3 



34 THE WORSHIP OF DIAN. 

Which young and travail'd dames adore and fear : 
Child of the dark-brow'd Proserpine ! 
Star-crowned Dian ! Daughter of Jove 
Olympian ! Mother of blind Love I 
Fair Cynthia ! Towered Cybele 1 
Lady of stainless chastity I 

Bend low thy listening ear, 

And smile upon us now the long day's toil 

Beautiful queen ! is done, 

And from the withering sun 

Save thou and bless the parch'd and fainting soil ; 

So may thy silver shafts ne'er miss their aim, 

But strike the heart of every bounding fawn, 

And not a nymph of thine e'er lose her fame 

By loitering in the beechen glades, 

Or standing, with her mantle half undrawn, 

Like listening Silence, near the skirting shades 

Of forests, where the satyrs lie 

Sleeping with upward face, or piping musically. 

Oh ! smile upon us Dian ! smile as thou 

Art wont, 'tis said, at times to look upon 

Thy own pale boy, Endymion, 

When he sleeps calmly on the mountain's brow : 

And may no doubt nor care, 



THE WORSHIP OF DIAN. 35 

When thou shalt wish, on nights serene and still, 

To stay thy car upon the Latmos-' hill, 

Touch with a clouded hand thy look of light, 

Nor elemental blight 

Mar the rich beauties of thy hyacinthine hair. 

Queen of the tumbling floods ! oh lend thine ear 

To us who seek and praise thee here. 

Fright not the Halcyon from her watery nest, 

When on the scarcely-moving waves she sits 

Listening, sore distrest 

Lest that the winds, in sullen fits, 

Should com e^ and lift the curling seas on high : 

Yet, if the storm must come — then Dian ! then 

Scatter the billows from the Delphic shore, 

And bid the monsters of the deep go roar 

Where the wild Scylla howls and raves, 

Hard by those foreign caves 

Sicilian, dug, 'tis said, by giant men 

Beneath Pelorus' rugged promontory. 

On thy white altar we 

Lavish in fond idolatry, 

Herbs and rich flowers such as the summer uses : 

Some that in wheaten fields 

Lift their red bells amidst the golden grain : 



36 THE WORSHIP OF DIAN. 

Some that the moist earth yields, 

Beneath the shadows of those pine trees high, 

Which, branching, shield the far Thessalian plains 

From the fierce anger of Apollo's eye, 

And some that Delphic swains 

Pluck by the silver springs of Castaly. 

Yet, there (thus it is said) the wanton Muses, 

Their dark and tangled locks adorning, 

Lie stretch' d on green slopes 'neath the laurel boughs, 

Or weave sad garlands for their brows ; 

And tho' they shun thee thro' the livelong night, 

Bend their bright eyes before the God of morning, 

And hail with shouts his first return of light. 

Now and for ever hail, great Dian ! — Thou, 
Before whose moony brow 
The rolling planets die, or lose their fires, 
And all the bravery of Heaven retires. 
There Saturn dimly turns within his ring, 
And Jove looks pale upon his burning throne ; 
There the great hunter-king, 
Orion, mourns with watery glare, 
The tarnished lustre of his blazing zone : 
Thou only, through the blue and starry air, 
In unabated beauty rid'st along, 
Companioned by our song. 



THE WORSHIP OF DIAN. 3; 

Turn hither, then, thy clear and steadfast smile, 

To grace our humble welcoming, 

And may thy poet's brain 

Be free from all but that so famous pain 

Which sometimes, at the still midnight, 

Stirs his creative fancyings, while, 

(Charmed by thy silver light) 

He strives, not vainly then, his sweetest song to sing 






GYGES. 



GYGES. 

This Story of Gyges, if I may so designate the slight thread of 
narrative that runs through these stanzas, comes from Herodotus. 
It is englished in " Painter's Palace of Pleasure," and is there 
prefaced by the following moral. 

" That husband, which is beautified with a comely 
" and honest wife, whose rare excellencie doth surpasse 
" others, as wel in lineaments, proporcion, and feature 
" of bodie, as in inwarde qualities of minde : if he can- 
" not retaine in the secrecie and silence of his breast, 
" that excellinge gifte and benefite, is worthy to be in- 
" augured with a laurel crown of follie. 

Vol, I. Nov. 6. 
I have imposed the name of ' Lais' upon the queen of Candaules, 
who is without a name in the Story. 

There is another account (in Plato, I believe,) of this same Gyges 
and his famous ring, which rendered him invisible, and by means of 
which he gained access to the Lydian Queen. This however would 
have been at variance with the moral, and was excluded. 



GYGES. 



( Lydian measures.' 

Dry den. 



I. 



I've often thought that if I had more leisure 
I'd try my hand upon that pleasant rhyme, 

The old ' ottava rima,' (quite a treasure 
To poets who can make their triplets chime 

Smoothly :) 'tis equally adapt to pleasure, 

To war, wit, love, or grief, or mock-sublime : 

And yet — when pretty woman's in the case, 

The lines go tripping with a better grace. 



GYGES. 



II. 



I've but small wit, and therefore will not venture 
On wit, and fighting — 'tis a noisy game ; 

From this too I'm bound down by my indenture, 
(At least I swear I am, and that's the same ;) 

Then grief— I scarcely ever think she meant her 
Madonna face — no 'twould not do : of fame 

Or pleasure I know little to rehearse, 

But Love is shaped and fit for every verse. 



III. 

Love ! — oh ! he breathes and rambles 'round the world 

An idol and idolater : he flies 
Touching, with passing beauty, ringlets curl'd, 

Ripe lips, and bosoms white, and starry eyes, 
And wheresoe'er his colours are unfurled 

Full many a young and panting spirit hies. 
His ranks are raw, for all are volunteers : 
Some fired with hope, and plenty plagued with fears. 



GYGES. 



IV. 



He is the sweetest, yet the fiercest passion, 
That ever soothed or scarred the human heart, 

Worshipped and jeered by all in every nation, 

And hugged and bidden while he's hugged, depart. 

Yet, to say truth, if I should have occasion 
Again to know him, I should beg his dart 

Might be a little blunted ; nay, before, 

'Twas tipped with gall — it should be sugar'd o'er. 



V. 



And I would have this dart held by a hand 

That would pour balm upon the wound it gave : 

Like that ' white wonder' of a foreign land, 
Whose mistress in the silver moonlight gave 

Tokens of early love, and did command 

One heart's devotion — but I'm getting grave : 

That damsel's sweetheart sadden'd, to be brief, 

And washed down ('twas with poison) all his grief. 



GYGES, 



VI. 



I'd have her eyes dark as the summer night, 
When Dian sleeps, and fair the planets roll 

Along their golden journies : 'tis a sight 

That comes like — like — I mean that, on the whole, 

It touches and, as 'twere, transports one quite, 
And makes one feel that one must have a soul ; 

And then our wits go wandering from their ways, 

Wild, and ' wool-gathering,' as the proverb says. 



VII. 

So much for eyes, and now for smiles. A smile 
I hold to be like balm ; (the sting's the tongue :) 

It soothes the cankers of the heart awhile, 
And is a sort of silent music flung 

(Or sunbeam) o'er the lips, and can beguile 
The very d — 1 ; — pshaw ! he never clung 

To woman's lips : I blush and blush again. 

Twas all mistake : he ' puts up' with the men. 



GYGES. 



VIII. 



I never saw a fault in women yet : 

Their bodies and their minds are full of grace : 
Sometimes indeed their tongue — but I forget, 

And 'faith that runs a very pretty race, 
And doth bewilder one like wine, or debt, 

Or whist, when in an ancient partner's face, 
We read supreme contempt, and hear her groan, 
And feel that all the blunders are our own. 



IX. 

This is vexatious I must own, and so 

Are many things if but the mind were given 

To make the most of trifles, but I go 

Gently and jogging on (I hope) to heaven, 

Sometimes in mirth, but oft'ner touch'd with woe, 
(For I have somewhat of the mortal leaven,) 

And string on rainy days an idle rhyme, 

And kill the present to feed future time. 






GYGES. 



X. 



Now to my tale, which I would fain indite 
(Tho' many a living bard can scribble better) 

Without deploying to the left and right, 

To see how others touch this style and metre ; 

I'll even keep Lord Byron out of sight. 

By the bye, Lord B. and I were school'd together 

At Harrow where, as here, he has a name. 

I- I'm not even on the list of fame. 



XI. 



Eat I am quite impatient. O, my muse I 
If muse I have, hie thee across the sea, 

And where in plenteous drops the famous i dews 
Of Castalie ' fall, beg a few for me ; 

A laurel branch too ; sure they'll not refuse, 
(The sisters) — if they do, then strip the tree, 

And we will cultivate the laurel here, 

And advertise for claimants far and near. 



GYGES. 



XII. 



Bards have a pleasant method, I must say, 
Of mixing up their songs in this lax age. 

Now, sweet and sharp and luscious dash'd with gay 
(Like Christmas puddings, laurell'd,) are the rage ; 

Some stuff" huge pamphlets in the duckling way, 
(With ' thoughts ') and now and then leave out ' the 
sage ; ' 

Some mark their tales (like pork) with lines and crosses ; 

Some hide things over-done with piquant sauces. 



XIII. 

Some hash the orts of others, and re-hash : 

Some rub the edge off jokes — to make 'em fair : 

Some cut up characters, (that's rather rash, 
And more than serious people well can bear :) 

In short there's many a way to make a dash ; 
Now, if you write incog. — that has an air ; 

(Yet men may as I have for this good reason :) 

Then Love's a thing that's never out of season. 



GYGES. 



XIV. 



Love is a pure and evanescent thing, 

And, when its delicate plumes are soil'd, it dies. 
There is a story of a Lydian king, 

Candaules, who it seems thought otherwise : 
A loose, uxorious monarch, passioning 

For what he had already. Husbands wise ! 
Attend the moral of my curious story, 
For I intend to lay it now before ye. 



XV. 

Candaules king of Lydia had a wife, 

Beautiful Lais : she was such as I 
(Had she not ta'en her silly husband's life, 

Which shews a certain taste for cruelty,) 
Could love; — but no; we might have had some strife, 

And she was rather cold and somewhat ' high/ 
And I detest that stalking, marble grace, 
Which makes one think the heart has left its place. 



GYGES. 



XVI. 



Now king Candaules was an amorous sot, 
A mere, loose, vulgar simpleton d'ye see ; 

Bad to be sure, yet of so hard a lot 

Not quite deserving, surely : and that she 

All old ties should so quickly have forgot 

Seems odd. We talk of " woman's constancy 

And love" — yet Lais' lord was but a fool, 

And she's but the exception, not the rule. 



XVII. 

She had the stature of a queen : her eyes 

Were bright and large but ail too proud to rove, 

And black, which I have heard some people prize ; 
Lightly along the ground she deign'd to move, 

Gazed at and wooM by every wind that flies, 
And her deep bosom seem'd the throne of love: 

And yet she was, for my poor taste, too grand, 

And likely for ' obey' to read ' command.' 



GYGES. 



XVIII. 



Give me less faultless woman, so she might 
Be all my own, trusted at home and far, 

With whom the world might be forgotten quite, 
The country's scandal and the city's jar, 

And in whose deep" blue eyes Love's tenderest light 
Should rise in beauty, like a vesper star, 

On my return at evening, aye, and shine 

On hearts I prized. By Jove ! 'twould be divine. 



XIX. 

Oh ! we would turn some pleasant page together, 
And 'plaud the wit, the tale, the poet's tropes, 

Or, wandering in the early summer weather, 
Talk of the past mischance and future hopes, 

Or ride at times, (and that would save shoe-leather,) 
For nought so well with nervous humours copes 

As riding; i. e. taken by degrees; 

It warms the blood, and saves all doctor's fees. 



GYGES. 



XX. 



Candaules' court was much like courts in general 
In times of peace, that is, 'twas pretty gay : 

To my taste better much than when the men are all 
Busy in horrid fighting far away, 

With scarce a sound but drums beating the ' generale ; ; 
Yes — now and then, when the wild trumpets bray, 

And their rich voice goes riding on the wind 

Like mounted war, and leaves a track behind. 



XXI. 

There was a Lydian boy who 'pleas'd at court; ' 
A youngster such as girls would smile to see, 

Excellent in each brave and gentle sport, 

War and the chace, the song, the dance, was he, 

But scribbling tender verses was his forte, 
And Gyges was quite fam'd for modesty, 

And when the king would praise his queen, the youth 

Yawn'd, in a way provoking; 'twas in truth. 



d 2 



GYGES, 



XXII. 



And yet he was not altogether cold ; 

(This I conclude, the story does not tell;) 
I mean, he was not sheepish, nor too bold, 

Nor did he swear, nor languish like a belle : 
Pshaw ! had I had my wits I might have told 

This in five words ; he pleas'd the women well. 
They said indeed at times, <a little bolder;' 
But this they knew would change, when he grew older. 



XXIII. 

There was a mark on Lais' swan-like breast, 
(A purple flower with its leaf of green,) 

Like that the Italian saw when on the rest 
He stole of the unconscious Imogene, 

And bore away the dark fallacious test 

Of what was not, altho' it might have been, 

And much perplex'd Leonatus Posthumus; 

In truth he might have puzzled one of us. 



GYGES. 



XXIV. 



The king told Gyges of the purple flower; 

(It chanced to be the flow'r the boy liked most ;) 
It has a scent as though Love, for its dower, 

Had on it all his odorous arrows tost, 
For tho' the Rose has more perfuming power, 

The Violet (haply 'cause 'tis almost lost, 
And takes us so much trouble to discover) 
Stands first with most : but always with a lover. 



XXV. 

He blush'd and listened — panted like a fawn 

That's just escaped the fraudful hunters' range, 

And his eyes sparkled like approaching morn, 
And on his cheek he felt the colour change 

Until he trembled — and the blush was gone : 
His brain was stagger'd with a notion strange : 

He sighed to see, tho' but for once, the flower; 

The monarch laugh'd, but 'twas a dangerous hour. 



GYGES, 



XXVI. 



In the first rushing of that burning tide 

Hath many a glorious spirit been swept away ; 

Heroes, bards, kings, have been brain-struck and died 
When the first burst of love, in full array 

Hath shewn the world at once, its pomp and pride 
Of beauty, starting into sudden day : 

Hence men restor'd to sight by surgic toil, 

Should learn to court the shade, at least awhile. 



XXVII. 

Next day he (Gyges) led the talk. He said 
He thought it ' curious' nature ever should 

Imprint an useless mark — that he was bred 

To think what seem'd most sportive in her mood, 

Was for a purpose : then he hung his head, 

And o'er his fine face flush'd the eloquent blood, 

And the king's broad and boastful stare he shunn'd : 

He look'd like a man in debt who had been dunn'd. 



GYGES. 



XXVIII. 



Candaules (shame upon the silly king !) 

Vowed that the curious boy this mark should see. 
He saw — (In faith 'twould be a pretty thing 

If even kings could take this liberty) 
He saw her in her beauty, fluttering 

From pleasure as she glanc'd her smiling eye 
On the broad mirror which displayed a breast 
Unlaced, where Jove himself might sigh to rest. 



XXIX. 

The boy came (guided by the king) to where, 
In the most deep and silent hour of nighu 

Stood Lais : quite unloos'd, her golden hair 
Went streaming all about like lines of light, 

And, thro' the lattice leaves gusts of soft air 

Sighed like perfume, and touched her shoulders white, 

And o'er her tresses and her bosom played, 

Seeming to love each place o'er which they strayed. 



GYGES. 



XXX. 



Then sank she on her couch and drew aside 
The silken curtains and let in the moon, 

Which trembling ran around the chamber wide, 
Kissing and flooding the rich flowers which June 

Had fann'd to life, and which in summer-pride 
'Rose like a queen's companions. Lais soon, 

Touch' d by the scene, look'd as she had forgot 

The world : the boy stood rooted to the spot. 



XXXI. 

He stood, with beating pulse and widen'd eyes, 
Like qne struck dumb by some magician's charm, 

Listening to the low music of her sighs, 

And gazing on her white and rounded arm; 

At last the lady motion'd as to rise, 

When it occurr'd to him there might be harm 

Unless he left (and quickly left) the place : 

He mov'd, and then she met him, face to face. 



GYGES. 



XXXII. 



It was the lady's turn to wonder now. 

She wonder'd, but her wonder soon subsided, 
And scorn and anger flash' d across her brow ; 

At length, she grew more calm, and (perhaps guided 
By pity for his youth) she asked him how — 

How a young gentleman like him who prided 
Himself upon his modesty could call 
At such an hour: he blush'd, and told her all. 



XXXIII. 

She swore she would have vengeance for the wrong, 
Double and deadly vengeance — and she had. 

His majesty soon after took that long 

Journey whence none but ghosts, or things as bad, 

Return : 'twas said his wine grew mighty strong, 
And that 'twas handed by this curious lad, 

(Gyges) whom Lais fancied from that day, 

And made Lord of herself and Lydia. 



n 3 



XXXIV. 

That king ! — he was the last of all his race, 
A race of kings and heroes, and he lay 

Helpless and dead : his smile gave pow'r and place 
Honour and wealth and joy, but yesterday. 

But poison had swept the smile from off his face, 
And his cold limbs went floating far away, 

Stript of the tomb wherein he should have slept : 

He liv'd unhonour'd, and he died unwept. 



XXXV. 

It is a chilling thing to see, as I 

Have seen, a man go down into the grave, 
Without a tear, or ev'n an alter'd eye : 

Oh ! sadder far than when fond women rave, 
Or children weep or aged parents sigh 

O'er one whom art and love doth strive to save 
In vain ; man's heart is sooth 'd by every tone 
Of pity, saying he's ' not quite alone/ 



GYGES. 



XXXVI. 



I saw a pauper once, when I was young, 

Borne to his shallow grave : the bearers trod 

Smiling to where the death-bell heavily rung, 
And soon his bones were laid beneath the sod: 

On the rough boards the earth was gaily flung : 
Methought the prayer which gave him to his God 

Was coldly said: — then all, passing away, 

Left the scarce-cofhn'd wretch to quick decay. 



XXXVII. 

It was an autumn evening and the rain 

Had ceased awhile, but the loud winds did shriek 
And call'd the deluging tempest back again, 

The flag-staff on the church-yard tow'r did creak, 
And thro' the black clouds ran a lightning vein, 

And then the flapping raven came to seek 
Its home : its flight was heavy, and its wing 
Seem'd weary with a long day's wandering. 



GYGES. 



XXXVIII. 



How the frail pair lived on I know not : I 
Have but subdued Candaules to my strain. 

It was enough for me that he should die, 

And having kill'd the king, why — that's the main : 

So, for the moral of the story, try 

(Turning to the beginning once again,) 

To trace it in the quaint and antique text; 

You'll find the meaning not at all perplex'd. 



XXXIX. 

Reader, this trifle's ended: I have told 

The tale and shewn the moral ' in a way :' 

Yet doth my page another truth unfold, 
Namely that women of the present day 

Are not so bad, nor half, as those of old. 
Then, cast not thou the lesson quite away, 

That — as they're better than they were before, 

Why, men should love 'em (wisely) more and more. 



THE DEATH OF ACIS. 



Hie ver purpureum : varios hie flumina circutn 
Fundit humus flores : hie Candida populus antro 
Imminet, et lentae texunt iimbracula vites. 
- - - O, Galatea. 

VIRG. Eel. ix. 



THE DEATH OF ACIS. 



Listen my love, and I will tell you now 
A tale Sicilian : 'tis of fabulous times 
When the vast giants liv'd, and spirits dwelt 
In haunted woods and caves beneath the seas, 
And some (these were the harmless Naiades) 
By running waters. You have heard me tell of 
The sea-nymph Galatea, Nereus' child, 
Who lov'd the shepherd Acis ? 'tis a sweet 
And mournful history, and to think how love 
Could bend a rugged Cyclops to his power 
Is pleasant: hearken then. 

There is a time, 
Just the first blush of summer, when the spring 
And his soft rains are passing off, and flowers 
Unclasp their bosoms to the winds and spread 



64 THE DEATH OE ACiS. 

Perfume and living beauty thro' the world. 

It is the year's gay manhood; nature then, 

Grateful and wantoning in idolatry, 

Does homage to the sun.— Long years ago, 

At this gay season, in a cave, o'errun 

By vines and boundless clematis, (between 

Whose wilderness of leaves white roses peep'd, 

And honeysuckle which, with trailing boughs, 

Droop'd o'er a sward grateful as ever sprung 

By sprinkling fountains, when Apollo drove 

The nymphs to haunt the thickets,) Acis knelt 

At Galatea's feet. She gaz'd awhile. 

One delicate hand was press'd against her cheek 

That flush'd with pleasure, and her dark-hair stream'd 

Shadowing the brightness of her fixed eye, 

Which on the young Sicilian shepherd's face 

Shone like a star : the other hand hung down, 

White as that Parian stone the sculptor hew'd 

To fashion for the temples of his gods. 

Peerless on earth, and like those forms of old, 

Pallas or dark-eyed Juno or the queen 

Who won the fruit on Ida, sate the sea-nymph, 

Proud Galatea; 'till at last she rais'd 

Her arm and twined it round her lover's neck, 

And in the gentlest music asked him then 

Why and how much he lov'd, and if he thought 



THE DEATH OF AC IS. 65 

'Twas strange that she, a high sea nymph, should 

leave 
Her watery palaces and coral caves, 
Her home, and all immortal company, 
To dwell with him, a simple shepherd boy. 
— But hark! a sudden sound burst on their ears 
And thro' the disturbed air came words like these : 

Hear me ye rocks, and all ye hollow caves 

Where the wild ocean raves ! 

And thou, eternal iEtna ! on whose brow 

The white and silent and perennial snow 

Sits like a diadem, I shout to thee, 

In this my sad extremity. 

Hearken ! ye liberated winds that stray 

From your dark caverns to the day, 

And blindly wander all the world around : 

Say to that world, 'I love, I love, I die;' 

And, on your home-returning sound, 

Bear the white Galatea's last reply. 

Thus, from an overhanging promontory, 

Shouted the giant Polypheme : the seas 

Drew backward as affrighted at the sound : 

The green woods moved, and the light poplar shook 

Its silver pyramid of leaves : the Fauns 



66 THE DEATH OF ACIS. 

Rose up to listen, and the Naiades 

Shrank in their chrystal fountains. Gloomily,, 

And still awhile, the Cyclops lay : at last, 

He lifted to his mouth a reed, and blew 

A strange and sweet preluding symphony. 

He was a master of his pipe, and knew 

How every note was touch'd : deep sorrow mix'd 

With those his mountain melodies, and Love cast 

A strange charm around him : mighty tears then fill'd 

His solitary eye, and with such noise 

As the rough winds of Autumn make, when they 

Pass o'er a forest and bend down the pines, 

The giant sigh'd. Again he blew his reed, 

And as the whistling music pass'd away, 

Sang thus of the white Galatea. 

Fair Galatea, listen ! By my birth 

(And I can trace it to the sea, the earth) 

I love you; not as mortals love a maid, 

Amorous yet afraid 

Lest that her answer chase all hope away : 

Oh ! Galatea, did I not celebrate 

Thee thro' the world, and tell you were divine, 

(Will you not then be mine ?) 

And ever sing your praise, early and late, 

Thro' all the changes of a summer's day ? 



THE DEATH OF ACIS. t 

Proud Galatea, listen ! am I not he, 

Before whose matchless melody 

The finest player stills his charmed lute, 

And every sea-maid's voice is mute ? 

Am I not he to whose sweet song the Faun 

Dances with mad delight, 

And, on her cloudy pillow resting thro' the night, 

Queen Dian listens 'till the morn ? 

Am I not, cruel nymph, great Neptune's child, 

Who circles with his arms the visible earth, 

(Altho' I may not walk the waters wild) 

And shalt thou scom my worth ? 

— Yet pardon, Galatea, pardon, for my heart 

Is almost broken, beauty, and the smart 

Of Love may draw from me 

Words that I must disown in calmer hours : 

I meant not, never meant to anger thee. 

Listen, my love ! altho' in coral bowers 

Thou hidest, now that thro' the burning air 

Starry Apollo rides. Listen, my fair ; 

The Son of Neptune, from his mountain high, 

Calls : Galatea! listen, and reply. 

He ended, and the lovers left their cave 

To see who sang so sweet, and stood exposed 



68 THE DEATH OE ACIS. 

Before the giant's eye. At once he saw 

His rival and the nymph he lov'd so well 

Twined in each other's arms. ' Away/ he cried, 

' Away thou wanton nymph, and thou, my slave, 

1 Earth-born and base, thou — thou whom I could shake 

* To atoms, as the tempest scatters abroad 

' The sea-sand tow'rd the skies, away, away.' 

He spoke, and from the groaning promontory 

Wrench'd a huge rock, to lift whose massy weight 

Would strain the sinews of a hundred arms, 

And tossed it tow'rd the sun : awhile it flew 

Thro' the blue air with whizzing noise, with all 

Its moss and stones and roots and branching shrubs, 

And stopp'd at last in the mid-air, and then 

Dropp'd like a plummet. Oh ! the shepherd boy : 

He felt the Cyclop's wrath, for on his head 

The mighty weight descended : not a limb, 

Or bone or fragment or a glossy hair 

Remained of all his beauty. He was struck 

Dead in a moment. Galatea! where 

Fled you to shun the tumbling mountain — where ? 

What matters it? the sea-maid's heart was struck, 

And never owned a love again. She changed, 

(As Grecian fables say) the shepherd boy 

Into a stream, and on its banks would lie 

And utter her laments in such a tone 



THE DEATH OF ACIS. 69 

As might have mov'd the rocks, and then would call 

Upon the murdered Acis. He the while 

Ran to the sea, but oft on summer nights 

Noises were heard and plaintive music, like 

The songs you hear in Sicily. Shepherd swains 

For many an age would lie by that lone stream, 

And from its watery melodies catch an air, 

And tune it to their simple instruments. 

Hence, as 'tis thought by some, did many songs 

Originate, and oh ! most likely 'tis 

That pastoral music first had some such birth, 

But whether from the running brooks it came, 

Or from the rustling leaves, or whispering winds, 

Or silver talking fountains, who may tell? 

It is enough we live and own its power. 



THE FALCON, 

A DRAMATIC SKETCH. 



' Frederigo, of the Alberighi family, loved a gentlewoman and was not 
( requited with like love again. But by bountiful expenses, and over 
' liberal invitations, he wasted all his lands and goods, having nothing 
' left him but a Hawk or Faulcon. His unkind mistress happeneth 
' to come to visit him, and he not having any other food for her 

* dinner, made a dainty dish of his Faulcon for her to feed on. Being 
' conquered by this exceeding kind courtesie, she changed her former 
' hatred towards him, accepting him as her husband in marriage, and 

• made him a man of wealthy possessions.' 

Boccaccio. (Old translation.) Fifth day : novel 9. 



THE FALCON. 



SCENE I. Outside of a Cottage. Sunset. 

Frederigo alone. 

Oh poverty ! And have I learnt at last 

Thy bitter lesson ? Thou forbidding thing 

That hast such sway upon this goodly earth, 

Stern foe to comfort, sleep's disquieter, 

What have I done that thou shouldst press me thus ? 

Let me not say how I did bear me in 

Prosperity ; much of the good we do 

Lies in its secret — But away with this, 

For here are skiey themes to dwell upon. 

Now do I feel my spirit hath not quite 

Sunk with my fortunes. — 'Tis the set of Sun. 

How like a hero who hath run his course 

In glory doth he die. His parting smile 

Hath somewhat holy in it, and doth stir 

Regret, but soft and unallied to pain, 






74 THE FALCON. 

To see him quietly sink and sink away, 

Until on yonder western mountain's top 

Lingering he rests at last, and leaves a look 

More beautiful than e'er he shed before : 

A parting present, felt by all that lov'd 

And flourish'd in his warm creative smile. 

Nor unattended does he quit the world, 

For there's a stillness in this golden hour 

Observable by all ; the birds that trill'd 

And shook their ruffled plumes for joy to see 

His coming in the morning, sing no more : 

Or if a solitary note be heard, 

Or the deep lowing of the distant beast, 

'Tis but to mark the silence. Like to this, 

In a great city the cathedral clock, 

Lifting its iron tongue, doth seem to stay 

Time for a moment, while it calls aloud 

To student's or to sick man's watchful ear, 

" Now goes the midnight." Then, I love to walk, 

And, heark'ning to that Church memorial, deem 

That sometimes it may sound a different tale, 

And upwards to the stars and mighty moon 

Send hollow tidings from this dreaming world, 

Proclaiming all below as calm as they. 



THE FALCON. 75 

The Sun light changes, and the tints are now 
Darkened to purple. Ha! a step : who's there? 
A Lady — O Giana ! 

Gian a and her Maid enter. 

Gia. Yes, Sir: you 
Have cause to be surprised. 

Fred. Not so, dear lady; 
Honour'd I own that my poor dwelling should 
Receive so fair a guest.. 

Gia. You do forget 
Past times. 

Fred. No, Madam, no ; those times still live 
Like blossomings of the memory, kept apart 
For holier hours, and shelter'd from the gaze 
Of rude uncivil strangers ; and — and they 
Are now my only comfort ; so lest they 
Should fade, I use 'em gently, very gently, 
And water 'em all with tears, 

Gia. Your poverty 
Has made you gloomy, Signior Frederigo. 

Fred. Pardon me, Madam : 'twas not well, indeed, 
To meet a guest like you with sorrow : you 
Were born for happiness. 

Gia. Alas! I fear not. 

Fred. Oh! yes, yes; and you well become it, well. 

e 2 



76 THE FALCON. 

May grief ne'er trouble you, nor heavier hours 
Weigh on so light a heart. 

Gia. You will reprove me : 
Light means unfeeling. 

Fred. Yet I meant not so. 
Giana! let me perish by your hate 
If ever I reproach you : what am I, 
Struck by misfortune, and the chilling touch 
Of Poverty, an outcast from my fortunes, 
Lavish'd and lost by folly— 

Gia. 'Twas for me. 

Fred. Oh ! no, no : I had many faults whereof 
The burthen rests with me : then what am I, 
That I should dare reproach you? think no more on't: 
Know me your truest servant, only that^ 
And bound to live and die for you, 

Gia. No more, 
But let's enjoy the present. 

Maid. My Lady, S r, 
Is come to feast with you. 

Gia. 'Tis even so. 

Fred. I am too honour'd: Can you then put up 
With my, so poor a welcoming ? If the heart 
Indeed could lavish entertainment, I 
Would feast you like a queen : but, as it is, 
You will interpret kindly? 



THE FALCON. 77 

Gia. Oh ! I come 
To grace a bachelor's table : that is never 
Stor'd but with common viands. Now we'll go, 
And rest us in your orchard, Signior. 
The evening breezes must be pleasant there ; 
So, for an hour, farewell. 

Fred. Farewell, dear Madam : 
I hope you'll find there some — ah ! 'ware the step. 

Gia. 'Tis but an awkward entrance, Sir, indeed. 

Fred. You'll find some books in the arbour, on the 
shelf 
Half hid by wandering honeysuckle : they 
Are books of poetry. If I remember 
You lov'd such stories once, thinking they brought 
Man to a true and fine humanity, 
Tho' silly folks are wont to jeer them, now. 

Gia. You've a good memory Signior. Thatmustbe— 
Stay, let me count: aye, some six years ago. 

Fred. About the time. 

Gia. You were thought heir, by many, 
Then, to the Count Filippo : you displeased him : 
How was't? 

Fred. Oh ! some mere trifle : I forget. 

Gia. Nay, tell me; for some said you were un- 
grateful. 

Fred. I could not marry to wish. 



78 THE FALCON. 

Gia. Was it so ? 

Fred. Thus simply : nothing more believe it. 

Gia. I knew not this before. Adieu ! [Exit. 

Fred. She comes to dine — to dine with me, who am 
A beggar. Now, what shall I do to give 
My Idol entertainment? not a coin: 
Not one, by Heav'n, and not a friend to lend 
The veriest trifle to a wretch like me. 
And she's descended from her pride too — no ; 
No, no, she had no pride. — Now if I give 
Excusings, she will think I'm poor indeed, 
And say misfortune starved the spirit hence 
Of an Italian gentleman. No more : 
She must be feasted. Ha! no, no, no, no, 
Not that way : Any way but that. Bianca ! 

Enter Bianca. 

This Lady comes to feast. 

Bia. On what, Sir ? There 
Is scarce a morsel : fruits perhaps — 

Fred. Then I 
Must take my gun and stop a meal i' the air. 

Bia. Impossible : there is no time. Old Mars, you 
know, 
Frights every bird away. 



THE FALCON. 79 

Fred. Ah ! villain he : 
Shall die for 't, bring him hither. 

Bia. Sir ! 
The falcon ? 

Fred. Aye, that murderous kite. How oft 
Hath he slain innocent birds : now he shall die. 
'Tis fit he should, if 'twere but in requital: 
And he for once shall do me service — Once ! 
Hath he not done it oft? no matter: Now 
I'll wring his cruel head, and feast my queen 
Worthily. 

Bia. He is here, Sir. 

Fred. Where? vile bird, 
There — I'll not look at him. 

Bia. Alas ! he's dead : 
Look, .look! ah! how he shivers. 

Fred. Fool! Begone. 
Fool ! am not I a fool — a selfish, slave ? 
I am, I am. One look, ah ! there he lies. 
By heav'n, he looks reproachingly ; and yet 
I loved thee, poor bird, when I slew thee. Hence. 

[Bianca exit. 
Mars! my brave bird, and have I killed thee, then, 
Who was the truest servant — fed me, loved, 
When all the world had left me? — Never more 
Shall thou and I in mimic battle play, 



80 THE FALCON. 

Nor thou pretend to die, (to die, alas!) 

And with thy quaint and frolic tricks delight 

Thy master in his solitude. No more, 

No more, old Mars! (thou wast the god of birds) 

Shalt thou rise fiercely on thy plumed wing, 

And hunt the air for plunder: thou couldst ride, 

None better, on the fierce and mountain winds 

When birds of lesser courage droop'd. I've seen 

Thee scare the wandering eagle on his way, 

(For all the wild tribes of these circling woods 

Knew thee and shunn'd thy beak,) and thro' the air 

Float like a hovering tempest fear'd by all. 

Have I not known thee bring the wild swan down 

For me, thy cruel master: aye, and stop 

The screaming Vulture in the middle air, 

And mar his scarlet plumage — all for me, 

Who ki'l'd thee — murdered thee, poor bird, for thou 

Wast worthy of humanity, and I 

Feel with these shaking hands, as I had done 

A crime against my race. 



THE FALCON. 



SCENE II. A Room. 



Frederigo. Giana. 

Gia. You think it strange that I should visit you ? 

Fred. No, madam, no. 

Gia. You must : ev ? n I myself 
(Yet Fve a cause) must own the visit strange. 

Fred. I am most grateful for it. 

Gia. Hear me, first. 
What think you brought me hither? I've a suit 
That presses, and I] look to you to grant it. 

Fred. 'Tis but to name it, for you may command 
My fullest service. Oh ! but you know this : 
You injure when you doubt me. 

Gia. That I think: 
So, to my errand. Gentle Signior, listen. 
I have a child : no mother ever lov'd 
A son so much : but that you know him, I 
Would say how fair he was, how delicate, 
But oh ! I need not tell his sweet ways to you : 
You know him. Signior, and your heart would grieve, 

E 3 



82 THE FALCON. 

I feel 't, if you should see the poor child die, 
And now he's very ill. If you could hear 
How he asks after you and says he loves you 
Next to his mother, Signior — 

Fred. Stay your tears. 
Can I do ought to soothe your pretty boy? 
I love him as my own. 

Gia. Sir ? 

Fred. I forget. 
And yet I love him, lady : does that ask 
Forgiveness ? Is my love — 

Gia. Now you mistake me. 
I thank you for your love. 

Fred. Giana ! How ! 

Gia. To my poor child : he pines and wastes away. 
There is but one thing in the world he sighs for, 
And that — I cannot name it. 

Fred. Is it mine ? 

Gia. It is, it is: I shame to ask it, but 
What can a mother do r 

Fred. 'Tis yours Giana : 
Aye, tho' it be my head. 

Gia. It is — the falcon. 
Ah! pardon me : I see how dear the bird 
Is to you, and I know how little I 
Have right to ask it. Pardon me. 



THE FALCON. 83 

Fred. Alas! 
I do, from— from my soul. 

Gia. I feel my folly. 
You shall not part with your poor faithful friend. 
No more of it : I was cruel to request it. 
Signior, I will not take it, for the world. 
I will not rob you, Sir. 

Fred. Oh ! that you could : 
Poor Mars ! Your child, Madam, will grieve to hear 
His poor old friend is dead. 

Gia. Impossible. 
I saw it as I entered. 

Fred. It is dead. 
Be satisfied, dear madam, that I say it : 
The bird is dead. 

Gia. Nay, this is not like you. 
I do not need excuses. 

Fred. Gracious lady, 
Believe me not so poor : the bird is dead. 
Nay then, you doubt me still, I see. Then listen. 
Madam, you came to visit me — to feast: 
It was my barest hour of poverty. 
I had not one poor coin to purchase food. 
Could I for shame confess this unto you ? 
I saw the descending beauty whom I loved 



84 THE FALCON. 

Honouring my threshold with her step, and deign 
To smile on one whom all the world abandoned. 
Once I had been her lover, how sincere 
Let me not say : my name was high and princely : 
My nature had not quite forgot its habits : 
I lov'd you still : I felt it — Could I stoop 
And say how low and abject was my fortune, 
And send you fasting home ? Your servant would 
Have scorn'd me. Lady, even then I swore 
That I would feast you daintily: I did. 
My noble Mars, thou wast a glorious dish 
Which Juno might have tasted. 

Gia. What is this ? 

Fred. We feasted on that matchless bird, to which 
The fabulous Phoenix would have bow'd. Brave 

bird! 
He has redeem'd my credit. 

Gia. {after a pause) — You have done 
A princely thing, Frederigo. If I e'er 
Forget it may I not know happiness. 
Signior, you have a noble delicate mind, 
And such as in an hour of pain or peril 
Methinks I could repose on. 

Fred. Oh! Giana! 

Gia. I have a child who loves you : for his mother 



THE FALCON. 85 

You've work'd a way into her inmost heart. 
Can she requite you ? 

Fred. How! what mean you? Oh! 
Giana, sweet Giana, do not raise 
My wretched heart so high, too high, lest it 
Break on its falling. 

Gia. But it shall not fall, 
If I can prop it, or my hand requite 
Your long and often-tried fidelity. 
I come, Fredei'igo, not as young girls do, 
To blush and prettily affect to doubt 
The heart I know to be my own. I feel 
That you have loved me well. Forgive me now, 
That circumstance, which some day I'll make known, 
Kept me aloof so long. My nature is 
Not hard, altho' it might seem thus to you. 

Fred. What can I say? 

Gia. Nothing. I read your heart. 

Fred. It bursts, my love : but 'tis with joy, with 

]oy. 

Giana ! my Giana ! we will have 

Nothing but halcyon days : Oh! we will live 

As happily as the bees that hive their sweets, 

And gaily as the summer fly, but wiser : 

I'll be thy servant ever; yet not so. 

Oh! my own love, divinest, best, I'll be 



86 THE FALCON. 

Thy Sun of life, faithful through every season, 
And thou shalt be my flower perennial, 
My bud of beauty, my imperial rose, 
My passion flower, and I will wear thee on 
My heart, and thou shalt never never fade. 
I'll love thee mightily my queen,- and in 
The sultry hours I'll sing thee to thy rest 
With music sweeter than the wild birds song : 
And I will swear thine eyes are like the stars, 
(They are they are, but softer,) and thy shape 
Fine as the vaunted nymphs' who, poets feign'd, 
Dwelt long ago in woods of A ready. 
My gentle deity ! I'll crown thee with 
The whitest lilies and then bow me down 
Love's own idolater, and worship thee. 
And thou wilt then be mine? My love, love! 
How fondly will we pass our lives together; 
And wander, heart-link'd, thro' the busy world 
Like birds in eastern story. 

Gia. Oh ! you rave. 

Fred. I'll be a miser of thee; watch thee ever : 
At morn, at noon, at eve, and all the night. 
We will have clocks that with their silver chime 
Shall measure out the moments : and I'll mark 
The time and keep love's pleasant calendar. 
To day I'll note a smile : to-morrow how 



THE FALCON. 

Your bright eyes spoke — how saucily, and then 
Record a kiss pluck'd from your currant lip, 
And say how long 'twas taking : then, thy voice 
As rich as stringed harp swept by the winds 
In Autumn, gentle as the touch that falls 
On serenader's moonlit instrument — 
Nothing shall pass unheeded. Thou shalt be 
My household goddess — nay smile not, nor shake 
Backwards thy clustering curls, incredulous: 
I swear it shall be so : it shall, my love. 

Gia. Why, now thou'rt mad indeed : mad. 

Fred. Oh! not so. 
There was a statuary once who lov'd 
And worshipped the white marble that he shaped ; 
Till, as the story goes, the Cyprus' queen, 
Or some such fine kind-hearted deity, 
Touch'd the pale stone with life, and it became 
At last, Pygmalion's bride : but thee — on whom 
Nature had lavish'd all her wealth before, 
Now Love has touch'd w T ith beauty : doubly fit 
For human worship thou, thou — let me pause, 
My breath is gone. 

Gia. With talking. 

Fred. With delight. 
But I may worship thee in silence, still. 



88 THE FALCON. 

Gia. The evening's dark; Now I must go : farewell 
Until to-morrow. 

Fred. Oh ! not yet, not yet. 
Behold ! the moon is up, the bright ey'd moon, 
And seems to shed her soft delicious light 
On lovers reunited. Why she smiles, 
And bids you tarry : will you disobey 
The Lady of the sky? beware. 

Gia. Farewell. 
Nay, nay, I must go. 

Fred. We will go together. 

Gia. It must not be to-night: my servants wait 
My coming at the fisher's cottage. 

Fred. Yet, 
A few more words, and then I'll part with thee, 
For one long night: to-morrow bid me come 
(Thou hast already with thine eyes) and bring 
My load of love and lay it at thy feet. 
— Oh ! ever while those floating orbs look bright 
Shalt thou to me be a sweet guiding light. 
Once, the Chaldean from his topmost tower 
Did watch the stars, and then assert their power 
Throughout the world : so, dear Giana, I 
Will vindicate my own idolatry. 
And in the beauty and the spell that lies 



THE FALCON. 89 

In the dark azure of thy love-lit eyes ; 
In the clear veins that wind thy neck beside, 
'Till in the white depths of thy breast they hide, 
And in thy polish' d forehead, and thy hair 
Heap'd in thick tresses on thy shoulders fair; 
In thy calm dignity; thy modest sense; 
In thy most soft and winning eloquence; 
In woman's gentleness and love (now bent 
On me, so poor,) shall lie my argument. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



AN INVOCATION. 



I. 



If, at this dim and silent hour, 

Spirits have a power 

To wander from their homes of light, 

And on the winds of night 

To come, and to a human eye 

Stand visible, like mortality-— 

II- 

Come thou,- the lost Marcelia, thou— 

And on thy sunny brow 

Bear all thy beauty as of old, 

For I dare behold 

Whatever sights sublime there be, 

So I may once more look on thee, 



AN INVOCATION. 

III. 

Or be thou like a daemon thing, 

Or shadow hovering, 

Or like the bloody shapes that come 

With torch and sound of drum, 

Scaring the warrior's slumbers, I 

Will welcome thee, and wish thee nigh. 

IV. 

And I would talk of the famous brave, 

Of the dead, and their house the grave, 

And feel its wondrous silentness, 

And pity those whom none may bless, 

And see how far the gaping tomb 

Stretches its spectral arms — and hear my doom. 

V. 

And I would know how long they lie 

On their dark beds who die, 

And if they feel, or joy, or weep, 

Or ever dare to sleep 

In that strange land of shadows. Thou 

Whom I do call, come hither — now. 



AN INVOCATION. 

VI. 

But there thou art, a radiant spirit, 

And dost inherit 

Earlier than others thy blue home, 

And art free to roam 

Like a visiting beam, from star to star. 

And shed thy smiles from skies afar. 

VII. 

Then, soft and gentle beauty, be 

Still like a star to me ; 

And I will ever turn at night 

Unto thy soothing light, 

And fancy, while before thine eyes, 

I am full in the smile of Paradise. 



96 



ON THE STATUE OF THESEUS. 

(One of the Elgin Marbles.) 

Aye, this is he, 

A proud and mighty spirit : how fine his form 

Gigantic ! moulded like the race that strove 

To take Jove's heaven by storm and scare him from 

Olympus. There he sits, a demigod, 

Stern as when he of yore forsook the maid 

Who doating saved him from the Cretan toil, 

Where he had slain the Minotaur. Alas ! 

Fond Ariadne, thee did he desert 

And heartless left thee on the Naxos shore, 

To languish. — This is he who dared to roam 

The world infernal, and on Pluto's queen, 

Ceres' own lost Proserpina, did lay 

His hand: thence was he prison'd in the vaults 

Beneath, 'till freed by Hercules. Methinks, 

(So perfect is the Phidian stone) his sire, 

The sea-god Neptune, hath in anger stopped 

The current of life, and with his trident-touch 

Hath struck him into marble. 



WHEN SHALL WE THREE MEET AGAIN. 



When shall we three meet again? 
We will meet when the storms and rain 
Of Autumn come, and the winds go by 
Our dwelling with a fearful cry, 
And shake the red leaves from the trees, 
And when they say that the year must die, 
Amongst their dreary harmonies 
We'll mingle a wild but livelier strain, 
And sing " We three have met again." 

Three sprightly spirits are we now ; 
One upon her maiden brow, 
Bears life and beauty, and her smile 
Shall cheer me on for many a mile; 



8 WHEN SHALL WE 

For I am going far away, 

To see the blue and cloudless day 

Shine on the fields of Italy : 

What tho' full many a heavy hour 

May press me with its silent power,.. 

And I, upon a foreign shore 

A stranger, feel that touch the more ; 

Yet, from amidst my sadness, I 

Will look upon futurity, 

And half forget my moody vein, 

In the thought that " We shall meet again/ 

When the Autumn nights are long 
We will sing some pleasant song ; 
And you my friend, whose silver tone 
Makes Music's very voice your own, 
You shall pour your richest numbers, 
And 'wake the silent night from slumbers ; 
And gentle Helen thou shalt be 
Queen of the hour to him and me, 
And we will braid amidst thy hair 
Roses like thy bosom fair, 
And we will laugh and worship thee, 
As the Spirit of Poetry. 



THREE MEET AGAIN. 99 

Away, away — for I must go 

Over the wild and bounding waters ; 

But amongst the Roman daughters 

I shall think of thee, as now : 

And — — if a lofty line 

Remind me of thy verse divine, 

Or if some sweet melody 

Should bring a thought of home to me, 

I will neglect the soothing strain, 

To sigh " Oh ! may we meet again. " 



LINES 

WRITTEN ON THE 

DEATH OF A FRIEND. 

(He died at Rome, of the MaV aria.) 



O Rome ! amongst thy temples high, 
And columns with the wild weed crown'd ? 
And sculptured capitals that lie 
Struck down, and in the grasp of Time, 
How many a mighty heart sublime 
Lies dead and stripp'c! of all its fame, 
Like those who never earn'd a name, 
Or played a base or vulgar part; 
And now — thou hast another heart, 
(No better in the wide world found) 
Buried in thy immortal ground, 
For thou — (altho* thy works of stone. 
All in their times renowned known 



LINES ON A FRIEND. 

As things of mere mortality 

Must perish — ) thou canst never die. 

But he, the burthen of my song, 

Who came, but might not tarry long, 

In summer strength hath perished. 

Oh ! many a thing beside the grave 

Whom few could love, and none could save, 

Hath he, with weak but hurrying tread 

Passed. And he is with the dead! 

' The dead ' — whom now 'twere vain to call 

While lying in their silent sleep, 

And yet we cannot help but weep, 

Albeit 'tis idle idle all. 

Then, let this poor memorial 

Remind some of his early day, 

And to all who lov'd him, say 

Tho' gone, he is not quite forgot. 

While to those who knew him not, 

It is enough to tell that he 

Was such a man as men should be ; 

That pray'r, nor art, nor love could save ; 

And that he lies in a foreign grave. 



MARCELIA, 



It was a dreary place. The shallow brook 
That ran throughout the wood there took a turn* 
And widened : all its music died away, 
And in the place a silent eddy told 
That there the stream grew deeper. There dark trees 
Funereal, (cypress, yew, and shadowy pine, 
And spicy cedar) clustered, and at night 
.Shook from their melancholy branches sounds 
And sighs like death : 'twas strange, for thro 7 the 

day 
They stood quite motionless, and looked methougbt 
Like monumental things which the sad earth 
From its green bosom had cast out in pity, 
To mark a young girl's grave. The very leaves 
Disown'd their natural green, and took a black 
And mournful hue: and the rough brier, stretching 



MARCELIA. 103 

His straggling arms across the rivulet, 
Lay like an armed sentinel there, catching 
With his tenacious leaf, straws, withered boughs, 
Moss that the banks had lost, coarse grasses which 
Swam with the current, and with these it hid 

The poor Marcelia's death-bed. Never may 

net 
Of venturous fisher be cast in with hope, 
For not a fish abides there. The slim deer 
Snorts as he ruffles with his shorten'd breath 
The brook, and panting flies the unholy place, 
And the white heifer lows and passes on ; 
The foaming hound laps not, and winter birds 
Go higher up the stream. And yet I love 
To loiter there : and when the rising moon 
Flames down the avenue of pines, and looks 
Red and dilated thro' the evening mists, 
And chequered as the heavy branches sway 
To and fro' with the wind, I stay to listen, 
And fancy to myself that a sad voice, 
Praying, comes moaning thro' the leaves, as 'twere 
For some misdeed. The story goes, that some 
Neglected girl (an Orphan, whom the world 
Frown'd upon) once stray'd thither, and 'twas thought 
Cast herself in the stream : you may have heard 
Of one Marcelia, poor Molini's daughter, who 



104 MARCELIA. 

Fell ill and came to want ? No ? — oh she lov'd 
A wealthy man who mark'd her not. He wed, 
And then the girl grew sick and pined away 
And drown'd herself for love. Some day or other 
I'll tell you all the story. 



PORTRAITS. 



I dreamt, and o'er my enchanted vision pass'd 
Shapes of the elder time : (beautiful things 
That men have died for ;) As they stood on earth, 
But more ethereal, and each forehead bore 
The stamp and character of the starry skies. 

First came that Roman Lady from whose bosom 
The Gracchi twins were born, gracious Cornelia: 
Her raven hair was wreath'd about her brow 
Severe, yet fair and lovely. Like a queen 
She trod, majestic as when Juno thron'd 
Above the Deities, by the side of Jove, 
Lends her proud smile celestial, while her Lord 
Showers Heaven's bounties on the world below. 

Behind her followed an Atheuian dame, 
(The pale and elegant Aspasia) 
Like some fair marble carved by Phidias' hand, 
And meant to imitate the nymph or muse : 

f 3 



106 PORTRAITS. 

Mistress of poetry and song was she. 

And fit to be beloved of Pericles. 

Shadow'd by myrtle boughs she floated onwards. 

Then came a darlc-brow'd spirit, on whose head 

Laurel and withering roses loosely hung : 

She held a harp, amongst whose chords her hand 

Wandered for music — and it came : She sang 

A song despairing, and the whispering winds 

Seem'd envious of her melody, and streamed 

Amidst the wires to rival her, in vain. 

Short was the strain, but sweet: Methought it spoke 

Of broken hearts, and still and moonlight seas, 

Of love, and loneliness, and fancy gone, 

And hopes decay'd for ever : and my ear 

Caught well remember'd names, l Leucadia''s rock' 

At times, and * faithless Phaon :' Then the form 

Pass'd not, but seemM to melt in air away : 

This was the Lesbian Sappho. — Then pass'd by 

Another, and another, and another without names. 

At last, came one whom none could e'er mistake 
Amidst a million : Egypt's dark-eyed Queen : 
The love, the spell, the bane of Antony. 
O, Cleopatra ! who shall speak of thee ? 
Gaily, but like the Empress of a land 



PORTRAITS. 105 

She mov'd, and light as a wood nymph in her prime, 
And crown' d with costly gems, whose single price 
Might buy a kingdom, yet how dim they shone 
Beneath the magic of her eye, whose beam 
Flash'd love and languishment : Of varying humours 
She seem'd, yet subtle in her wildest mood, 
As guile were to her passions ministrant. 
At last she sank as dead. A noxious worm 
Fed on those blue and wandering veins that lac'd 
Her rising bosom : aye, did sleep upon 
The pillow of Antony, and left behind, 
In dark requital for its banquet — death. 



LINES 

WRITTEN UNDER AN 

ENGRAVING OF MILTON. 

He, tho' he dwelt in seeming night, 

Scattered imperishable light 

Around, and to the regions of the day 

Sent his winged thoughts away, 

And bade them search the w r ays on high 

For the bright flame of Poetry. 

— -'Tis to adventurous spirits given 

Alone, who dare themselves obey, 

And look at the face of the inmost heaven. 

He saw the burning fire that keeps, 

In the unfathomable deeps, 

Its powers for ever, and made a sign 

To the Morning Prince divine, 

Who came across the sulphurous flood 

Obedient to that master call, 

And, in Angel beauty, stood 

Proud on his star-lit pedestal. 



LINES ON MILTON. 

Then the mighty limner drew, 

And tincted with a skiey hue, 

The king of all the damned : the same 

Who headlong from the Empyrean came, 

With all his fiery cherubim, 

Blasted, and millions fell with him. 

He saw the dreary regions where 
Eternal chaos sate, and there 
Learnt secrets of the whispering gloom, 
And faced the father of the tomb, 
Orcus ; and many an awful thing 
That comes in wild dreams hovering, 
Tumult, and Chance, and Discord, Fame, 
And heard and saw the " dreaded name 
Of Demogorgon," and his soul 
Felt the shadowy darkness roll 
From night's throne, and then he told 
To man those signs and wonders old. 



TO A STAR. 

Written (for a Common-place book) under the Sketch of a 
Cavalier contemplating a Star. 



Now, from thy skiey road, look down upon me, 

Hesper — Star of my sad nativity! 

• — With no unholy thought I dare to court 

Thy lustrous eye on' me: and as to one 

Known in some happier hours I bid thee hail 

After my many wanderings. I have seen 

Thy burning glance on bare and peopled lands, 

Civil and savage : on the parched plains 

Of India and the sands of Palestine, 

On tropic waters and on iced shores, 

And on the far and solitary seas 

O' the south. I've roam'd this circular world, and 

thou 
Hast followed me like fate, yet never look'd 
Before with such kind aspect: Thou art now 
Shining above my home, and hallowing 
The sweet haunt of my infancy - — I come 



TO A STAR. 1 

After my toils and dangers to seek rest, 

And love, and welcoming eyes, and gentle hearts. 

Oh ! thou bright Star, be now my messenger, 

And from thy cloudy palace (for the clouds 

Are rolling 'round about thee) glance upon 

My mother's house with thy expressive eye, 

And to the dear inhabitants, gentle Star, 

Dart smiling tidings that the boy they loved 

Is come indeed. Shipwrecked and lost for years, 

He lives redeemed from his watery grave, 

Lives, and will be a blessing. And on the cheek 

Of one supremely soft and beautiful, 

Light like the cheerful ray of a Summer morning; 

So may my own Olympia know that still 

Juan, the wanderer, lives. 



SONG. 



l. 



Sleep my Leila; do not fear; 
Close thine eyes; thy Hassan's here. 
Thy lover's still beside thee : 
Then how can harm betide thee r 



Sleep, my rose of beauty, sleep, 
And I will hush thy murmurs deep, 
And watch thee while thou sleepest, 
And kiss thee if thou weepest. 



Yet, may no fears, nor aught that seems 
Evil ever haunt thy dreams. 
Dream thou of love and flowers, 
Blue skies and happier hours. 



SONG. 



4„ 



And I, beneath this summer moon, 
Will sing an old remember'd tune, 
Such as the winds awaken 
When slumbering leaves are shaken. 



Such as comes, when o'er smooth sands 
The sea-maid spreads her silver hands, 
And sinks, with scarce a motion, 
Back in the calm green ocean. 

6. 

Sweet as when the star-light goes, 
Thy dark eyes now begin to close, 
On all, on me thy lover : 
They're shut : my song is over. 



SONG. 

A MAID TO HER LOVER. 

Where's the ring I gave to thee, 
Juan, when our love was young, 
And I upon thy bosom clung 
With all a girl's credulity ? 

In the narrow circlet lay 
An emblem as I thought (ere fears 
And doubt sprung up in after years) 
Of endless love, that mock'd decay. 

And its golden round contained 
For gentle hearts a silent spell, 
Within whose magic we might dwell, 
I hoped, as long as life remained. 

And am I then forgot by you? 

Oh ! then send back the idle token, 

For rings are nought when vows are broken, 

And useless all while love is true. 



SERENADE. 



Listen ! from the forest boughs 
The voice-like angel of the spring 
Utters his soft vows 
To the proud rose blossoming. 

And now beneath thy lattice, dear ! 
I am like the bird complaining : 
Thou above (I fear) 
Like the rose disdaining. 

From her chamber in the skies 
Shouts the lark at break of morning, 
And when day-light flies 
Comes the raven's warning. 

This of gloom and that of mirth 
In their mystic numbers tell ; 
But thoughts of sweeter birth 
Teacheth the nightingale. 



A DRYAD'S HAUNT. 



TRAVELLER. 

This is a lovely spot. Here let us rest, 

Beneath this branching oak, and make the grass 

Our bed awhile. Shepherd ! this spot indeed 

Were worthy some tradition: hast thou none 

Stored in thy memory, to beguile the time 

While the sky burns above us? Why, methinks, 

The very seasons meet, flinging the buds 

Of Spring in the lap of Summer. Every tree 

That prodigal Nature gives springs forth, and seems 

The fairest of its kind. The poplar there 

Shoots up its spire and shakes its leaves i' the sun 

Fantastical, while 'round its slender base 

Rambles the sweet-breath'd woodbine : There beside, 

Glooms the dark cypress, and the ash seems to sigh 

Lest it should fling its berries to the blast : 

There crawls the vine; there the pale rose doth hang 

Her head like a love-sick girl : on high the cedar 

Stoops, like a monarch to his people bending, 

And casts his sweets around him — Where are we ? 



A DRYAD'S HAUNT. 117 

GUIDE. 

I had almost forgot the place. This was 

A Dryad's home : Beneath this ancient oak 

(First o' the forest) that doth spread its arms 

Abroad, and stands again regenerate, 

She hVd. She loved, it seems, a mortal but 

The fairest youth in Phocis : on his brow 

Sate a mild beauty (such the ancients paint 

Hylas or Hyacinth, or who died self slain 

Narcissus,) — Here she passed her life, and caught 

Youth from the changing year. She lov'd to lie 

At noontide on yon slope, and muse upon 

Her sad and lonely destiny. At last, 

Quitting her sacred tree (here had she dwelt 

The spirit of the place) she plunged within 

Yon bend of the Cephisus, where you see 

The waves flow darker and the ripples sink 

To silence : yet she died not, for some god 

(Then watching from his orb) saved the poor nymph 

And fixed her in the skies, a star 'tis thought, 

For ever when the setting sun departs 

On April evenings or in early May, 

(That time she left us) a pale star is seen 

Brightly to shine on that part of the stream 

Wherein she plunged ; and ever when it shines 

The trees around the place are mov'd, as if 



118 A DRYAD'S HAUNT. 

By airs from Heav'n, and sweetness steams about : 
The dark pines bend their heads : that sacred oak 
Lets falls its leaves, as when on Autumn nights 
The North wind (Winter's fierce precursor) roams 
Amongst the branches howling, and disrobes 
The shrubs of all their green : pale Syrinx then 
Moans in the reeds, and sweet Aglaia (she 
Still constant to the inconstant rivulet,) 
Troubles the faint Cephisus' course, and breathes 
Music along the waters, 



LAST DAY 



TIPPOO SAIB. 



That day he 'rose Sultan of half the East. 
—The guards awoke, each from his feverish dream 
Of conquest or of fear: the trumpet plain'd 
Thro' the far citadel, and thousands trooped 
Obedient to its mournful melody, 
Soldier and chief and slave : And he the while 
Traversed his hall of power, and with a look 
Deeply observant glanced on all : then, waving 
His dusky arm, struck thro' the listening crowd 
Silence and dumb respect : from his fierce tongue 
Stream'd words of vengeance : Fame he promised, 
And wealth and honours to the brave, but woe 
To those who fail'd him. — There he stood, a king 
Half-circled by his Asian chivalry, 
In figure as some Indian God, or like 



120 TIP POO SMB. 

Satan when he beneath his burning dome 
Marshal'd the fiery cherubim, and called 
All hell to arms. The Sun blazed into day : 
Then busy sights were seen, and sounds of war 
Came thickening : first the steed's shrill neigh ; the 

drum 
Rolling at intervals; the bugle note, 
Mix'd with the hoarse command ; then (nearing on) 
The soldier's silent, firm, and regular tread; 
The trampling horse ; the clash of swords ; the wheel 
That, creaking, bore the dread artillery. 
How fierce the dark king bore him on that day! 
How bravely ! Like a common slave he fought, 
Heedless of life, and cheer'd the soldier on, 
Deep in his breast the bullets sank, but he 
Kept on, and this looked nobly — like a king. 
That day he earned a title with his life, 
And made his foes respect him. — Towards night 
He grew faint, very faint with many wounds : 
His soldiers bore him in : they wept : he was 
Their old commander, and, whate'er his life, 
Had led them on to conquest. Then (it was 
His wish) they placed him on his throne — He sate 
Like some dark form of marble, with an eye 
Staring, and strained with pain, and motionless, 
And glassy as with death : his lips compressed 



TIPPOO SAIB. n 

Spoke inward agony, yet seem'd he resolute 
To die a king. An enemy came, and strove 
To tear away his regal diadem : 
Then turned his eye; he rose — one angry blush 
Tinted his cheek, and fled. He grasp'd his sword, 
And struck his last, faint, useless blow, and then 
Stood all defenceless — Ah ! a flash, and quick 
Fled the dark ball of death: right thro' the brain 
It went, (a mortal messenger) and all 
That then remain'd of that proud Asian king, 
Who startled India far and wide, and shook 
The deserts with his thunder, was — a name. 



I 



SONG. 



My love is a lady of gentle line, 
Tow'rds some like the cedar bending, 
Tow'rds me she flies — like a shape divine 
From heaven to earth descending. 

Her very look is life to me, 

Her smile like the clear moon rising, 

And her kiss is as sweet as the honied bee, 

And more and more enticing. 

Mild is my love as the summer air, 
And her cheek (her eyes half closing) 
Now rests on her full-blown bosom fair, 
Like Languor on Love reposing. 



SONG. 



Thou shalt sing to me 
When the waves are sleeping, 
And the winds are creeping 
'Round the embowering chesnut tree. 

Thou shalt sing by night, 

When no birds are calling, 

And the stars are falling 

Brightly from their mansions bright. 

Of those thy song shall tell 
From whom we've never parted, 
The young, the tender-hearted, 
The gay, and all who loved us well. 

But we'll not profane 

Such a gentle hour 

Nor our favourite bower, 

With a thought that tastes of pain. 

g 2 



SONNETS. 



SPRING. 

It is not that sweet herbs and flow'rs alone 

Start up, like spirits that have lain asleep 

In their great Mother's iced bosom deep 

For months, or that the birds, more joyous grown, 

Catch once again their silver summer tone, 

And they who late from bough to bough did creep, 

Now trim their plumes upon some sunny steep, 

And seem to sing of Winter overthrown. 

No- — with an equal march the immortal mind, 

As tho' it never could be left behind, 

Keeps pace with every movement of the year ; 

And (for high truths are born in happiness) 

As the warm heart expands, the eye grows clear, 

And sees beyond the slave's or bigot's guess. 



SONNETS. 125 



SUMMER. 



Now have green April and the blue-eyed May 
Vanish 'd awhile: and lo ! the glorious June, 
(While Nature ripens in his burning noon) 
Comes like a young inheritor, and gay, 
Altho' his parent months have passed away : 
But his green crown shall wither, and the tune 
That usherM in his birth be silent scon, 
And in the strength of youth shall he decay. 
What matters this — so long as in the past 
And in the days to come we live, and feel 
The present nothing worth, until it steal 
Away, and like a disappointment die? 
For Joy, dim child of Hope and Memory, 
Flies ever on before or follows fast. 



SONNETS. 



AUTUMN. 



There is a fearful spirit busy now : 

Already have the elements unfurled 

Their banners : the great sea-wave is upcurled : 

The cloud comes : the fierce winds begin to blow 

About, and blindly on their errands go, 

And quickly will the pale red leaves be hurled 

From their dry boughs, and all the forest world, 

Stripp'd of its pride, be like a desart show. 

I love that moaning music which I hear 

In the bleak gusts of Autumn, for the soul 

Seems gathering tidings from another sphere ; 

And, in sublime mysterious sympathy, 

Man's bounding spirit ebbs and swells more high, 

Accordant to the billow's loftier roll. 



SONNETS'. 






WINTER. 



This is the eldest of the seasons: he 
Moves not like Spring with gradual step, nor grows 
From bud to beauty, but with all his snows 
Comes down at once in hoar antiquity. 
No rains nor loud proclaiming tempests flee 
Before him, nor unto his time belong 
The suns of Summer, nor the charms of song 
That with May's gentle smiles so well agree. 
But he, made perfect in his birth-day cloud, 
Starts into sudden life with scarce a sound, 
And with a gentle footstep prints the ground, 
As tho' to cheat man's ear; yet while he stays, 
He seems as 'twere to prompt our merriest days, 
And bid the dance and joke be long and loud. 



SONNET. 

( Written after seeing Mr. Mac ready in Rob Roy.) 



Macready, thou hast pleas'd me much : 'till now 
(And yet I would not thy fine powers arraign) 
I did not think thou hadst that livelier vein, 
Nor that clear open spirit upon thy brow. 
Come, I will crown thee with a poet's bough : 
Mine is a humble branch, yet not in vain 
Giv'n, if the few I sing shall not disdain 
To wear the little wreaths that I bestow. 
There is a buoyant air, a passionate tone 
That breathes about thee and lights up thine eye 
With fire and freedom : it becomes thee well. 
It is the bursting of a good seed, sown 
Beneath a cold and artificial sky : 
'Tis genius overmastering its spell. 



A STORMY NIGHT. 



It is a stormy night, and the wild sea 

That sounds for ever, now upon the beach 

Is pouring all its power. Each after each 

The hurrying waves cry out rejoicingly, 

And, crowding onwards, seem as they would reach 

The height I tread upon. The winds are high, 

And the quick lightnings shoot along the sky 

At intervals. It is an hour to teach 

Vain man his insignificance ; and yet, 

Tho' all the elements in their might have met, 

At every pause comes ringing on my ear 

A sterner murmur, and I seem to hear 

The voice of Silence sounding from her throne 

Of darkness, mightier than all — but all alone. 



Once, in a dream, I saw a shape of power 

And unimaginable beauty, clad 

In a vest of brightness star dropt, armed with 

A spear (celestial temper) while around 

Blaz'd circling light— intense — and far beyond 

Those sheeted lightnings that, by night, cast out 

Their splendours near the line. The vision spoke 

Cheering, and as it spoke, the air became 

Painfully sweet. Such odours as the rose 

Wastes on the summer air, or such as rise 

From beds of hyacinths, or from jasmine flowers, 

Or when the blue-ey'd violet weeps upon 

Some sloping bank remote, while the young sun 

(Creeping within her sheltering bower of leaves) 

Dries up her tears, were nought — fantastical. 

It spoke — in tones cathedral organs (touched 

By master hands) ne'er gave — nor April winds* 

Wandering thro' harps iF.olian — nor the note 

Of pastoral pipe, heard on the Garonne banks 

At eventide — nor Spanish youth's guitar, 

Night-touch' d — nor strains that take the charmed ear, 

Breath'd by the 'witching dames of Italy. 



DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 

A SPANISH TALE. 



DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 



A SPANISH TALE. 



The octave rhyme (Ital. ottava rirna) 
Is a delightful measure made of ease 

Turn'd up with epigram, and, tho' it seem a 
Verse that a man may scribble when he please, 

Is somewhat difficult; indeed, I deem a 
Stanza like Spenser's will be found to teaze 

Less, or heroic couplet : there, the pen 

May touch and polish and touch up again. 



DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 



II. 



But, for the octave measure — it should slip 
Like running water o'er its pebbled bed, 

Making sweet music, (here I own I dip 
In Shakspeare for a simile) and be fed 

Freely, and then the poet must not nip 

The line, nor square the sentence, nor be led 

By old, approved, poetic canons; no, 

But give his words the slip and let 'em go. 



III. 

I mean to give in this same pleasant rhyme 
Some short account of Don Diego de 

Montilla, quite a hero in his time, 

Who conquer'd captain Cupid as you'll see : 

My tale is sad in part, in part sublime, 

With here and there a smack of pleasantry: 

As to the moral, why— 'tis under cover. 

I leave it for the reader to discover. 



DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 



IV. 



' Arms and ' — but I forget. Love and the man 
I sing, that's Virgil's method of beginning, 

Alter'd a little just to suit my plan, 

I own the thing and so there's not much sinning, 

Most writers steal a good thing when they can, 
And when 'tis safely got 'tis worth the winning. 

The worst oft is we now and then detect 'em, 

Before they ever dream that we suspect 'em. 



Love and the man I sing — and yet 'twould be 
As well methinks, nay perhaps it may be better, 

Particularly for a young bard like me, 

Not to stick quite so closely to the letter; 

One's verse as well as fancy should be free, 
The last indeed hates every sort of fetter: 

So, as each man may call what maid he chuses 

By way of Muse, I'll e'en call all the Muses. 



DIEGO DE MONTILLA, 



VI. 



Hearken ! ye gentle sisters, (eight or nine) 
Who haunted in old time Parnassus' hill, 

If that so worshipp'd mount be yet divine, 
And ye there meet your mighty master still, 

And still for poet heads the laurel twine, 
And dip your pitchers in the famous rill, 

I'll trouble ye for a leaf or two; tho' first I 

'11 just try the jug, for 'faith, I'm somewhat thirsty. 



VII. 

And now, great lyrist, fain would I behold 
Thee in thy glory — Lord and Life of day ! 

Sun-bright Apollo! with thy locks of gold, 
As thou art wont to tread heav'n's starry way, 

Not marbled and reduced to human mould, 
As thou didst stand, one of a rich array, 

(Yet even there distinct and first of all) 

In the vast palace of the conquer* d Gaul. 



DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 



VIII. 



But, if thy radiant forehead be too bright 
For me to look upon with earthy eye, 

Ah ! send some little nymph of air or light, 
Whom love has touch'd and taken to the sky, 

And bid her, till the inspiration quite 

O'erwhelms, show'r kisses on my lip, and sigb 

Such songs (and I will list to her for hours) 

As once were sung in amaranthine bovvers. 



IX. 



And I will lie pillow'd upon her breast, 

And drink the music of her words, and dream 

(When sleep shall bring at last a pleasant rest) 
Haply of many a high immortal theme, 

And, in the lightning of her beauty blest, 

My soul may catch perhaps one thrilling beam 

From her dark eyes — but, ah ! your glorious day 

Ye nymphs and deities now hath passed away. 



DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 



Oh ! ye delicious fables, where the wave 

And woods were peopled and the air with things 

So lovely, why ah ! why has science grave 
Scatter' d afar your sweet imaginings ? 

Why sear'd the delicate flow'rs that genius gave, 
And dash'd the diamond drops from fancy's wings? 

Alas ! the spirit languishes, and lies 

At mercy of life's dull realities. 



XI. 



No more by well or bubbling fountain clear 
The Naiad dries her tresses in the sun, 

Nor longer may we in the branches hear 
The Dryad talk, nor see the Oread run 

Along the mountains, nor the Nereid steer 

Her way amongst the waves when day is done. 

Shadow nor shape remains.— But I am prating 

While th' reader and Diego, both, are waiting. 



DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 139 



XII. 

Diego was a knight, but more enlighten'd 

Than knights were then, or are, in his countree, 

Young— brave— (at least, he'd never yet been frighten'd,) 
Well-bred, and gentle, as a knight should be : 

He play'd on the guitar, could read and write and 
Had seen some parts of Spain, and (once) the sea. 

That sort of man one hopes to meet again, 

And the most amorous gentleman in Spain. 



XIII. 

There was a languor in his Spanish eye 

That almost touched on softness ; had he been 

Instead of man a woman, by the bye, 

His languish had done honour to a queen; 

For there was in it that regality 

Of look, which says the owner must have been 

Something in former days, whatever now : 

And his hair curl'd (or was curl'd) o'er his brow. 



DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 



XIV. 



The Don Diego (mind this, Don Diej/go : 
Pronounce it rightly,) fell in love. He saw 

The daughter of a widow from Tobago, 

Whose husband fell with honour : i. e. War 

Ate up the lord of this same old virago, 

Who strait return 'd to Spain, and went to law 

With the next heir, but wisely first bespoke 

The smartest counsel, for that's half the joke. 



XV. 

The lady won her cause ; then suitors came 
To woo her and her daughters : she had two : 

Aurelia was the elder, and her name, 

Grace, wit, and so forth thro' the country flew 

Quicker than scandal : young Aurora's fame — 
She had no fame, poor girl, and yet she grew 

And brighten'd into beauty, as a flower 

Shakes off the rain that dims its earlier hour. 



DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 



XVI. 



Aurelia had some wit, and, as I've said, 
Grace, and Diego lov'd her like his life; 

Offer'd to give her half his board and bed, 
In short he woo'd the damsel for a wife, 

But she turned to the right about her head 

And gave some tokens of (not love but) strife ; 

And bade him 'wait, be silent, and forget 

Such nonsense: He heard this, and — lov'd her yet. 



XVII. 

He lov'd: O how he lov'd ! His heart was full 
Of that immortal passion, which alone 

Holds thro' the wide world its eternal rule 
Supreme, and with its deep seducing tone 

Winneth the wise, the young, the beautiful, 
The brave, and all to bow before its throne 

The sun and soul of life, the end, the gain, 

The rich requital for an age of pain. 



DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 



XVIII. 



Beneath the power of that passion he 

Shrank like a leaf of summer, which the sun 

Has scorch'd 'ere yet in green maturity — - 
He was a desperate gamester who ne'er won 

A single stake, but saw the chances flee, 

And still kept throwing on till— all was done : 

A rose on which the worm had rioted. 

[All this was what his friends and others said.] 



XIX. 

And yet, but one short year ago, his cheek 

Dimpled and shone, and o'er it health had flung 

A colour, like the Autumn evening's streak, 
Which flushing through the darker olive, clung 

Like a rich blush upon him. In a freak 

Men will I'm told, or when their pride is stung, 

Call up that deepening crimson in girls' features : 

Some people swear it makes 'em different creatures. 



DIEGO DE MONT1LLA. 



XX. 



For me, I always have an awkward feeling 
When that vermillion tide comes flooding o'er 

The brows and breast, instead of gently stealing 
On, and then fading till 'tis seen no more ; 

The first proceeds too from unhandsome dealing, 
And sudden leaves a paleness, if no more, 

Perhaps a frown. The last is born of pleasure 

Or springs from praise, and comes and goes at leisure. 



XXI. 

His mistress — Shall I paint Aurelia's frown? 

Her proud and regal look, her quick black eye, 
Thro' whose dark fringes such a beam shot down 

On men (yet touch'd at times with witchery) 
As when Jove's planet distant and alone 

Flashes from out the sultry summer sky 
And bids each lesser star give up its place. 
— This was exactly Miss Aurelia's case. 



DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 



XXII. 



Her younger sister — -she was meek and pale 
And scarcely noticed when Aurelia near, 

None ev'n had thought it worth their while to rail 
On her, and in her young unpractis'd ear 

Those soft bewitching tones that seldom fail 
To win had ne'er been utter'd. She did steer 

Her gentle course along life's dangerous sea 

For sixteen pleasant summers quietly. 



XXIII. 

Her shape was delicate : her motion free 
As his, that "charter'd libertine" the air, 

Or Dian's when upon the mountains she 
Follow'd the fawn: her bosom full and fair; 

It seem'd as Love himself might thither flee 

For shelter when his brow was parched with care : 

And her white arm, like marble turn'd by grace, 

Was of good length, and in its proper place. 



DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 



XXIV. 



Her hair was black as night : her eyes were blue : 
Her mouth was small, and from its opening stream'd 

Notes like the silver voice of young Carew, 
Of whose sweet music I have often dream'd, 

And then (as youths like me are wont to do) 
Fancying that every other damsel scream'd, 

Started to hear Miss C. again. I sit 

In general (to be near her) in the pit. 



XXV. 

Let lovers who have croaking Delias swear 

Their tones are ' just in tune* or ' just the thing:' 

Let lying poets puff, in couplets fair, 

Pan's reedy pipe — Apollo's golden string — 

How Memnon sung, and made the Thebans stare 
When he saw Titan's daughter scattering 

Flowers — 'tis all stuff, reader : what say you ? 

Give me (but p'rhaps I'm partial) Miss Carew. 



DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 



XXVI. 



Oh! witching as the nightingale first heard 
Beneath Arabian heavens, wooing the rose, 

Is she, or thrush new-mated, or the bird 
That calls the morning as the last star goes 

Down in the west, and out of sight is heard 
Awhile, then seems in silence to repose 

Somewhere beyond the clouds, in the full glory 

Of the new-risen Sun. — Now to my story : 



XXVII. 

The Don was constant at his Lady's court, 
For every day at twelve she held a levee, 

Where song, joke, music, and all sorts of sport 
Went 'round, so that the hours were seldom heavy ; 

Aurelia talk'd, (and talking was her forte) 

Or quizzed her female friends, and then the bevy 

Of coxcombs vow'd such wit was never heard : 

For this one gave his honour, one his word. 



DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 



XXVIII. 



Things went on pretty smoothly till the Don 

Declar'd his love ; but, when he sought to marry, 

He found she would not give up all for one, 

What ! Counts and Cavaliers and all, and carry 

Herself demurely — 'twas not to be done : 

She said she lov'd him not, and bade him tarry, 

(As I have told,) on which he did begin 

To grow and soon grew tolerably thin. 



He gazed and watch' d, and watch' d and gazed upon her, 
And look'd, like Suckling's lover, thin and pale ; 

But how should looking thin have ever won her, 
When looking well (as he says) didn't prevail, 

It did not answer with our Spanish Donna, 
Nor can it save in poem, play, or tale ; 

In fact there's not much interesting in't 

Unless it be in hotpress and good print. 



XXIX. 



148 DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 



XXX. 

Yet, gentles, would I not be thought to jeer 

Tbe Love that flourishes when young hearts are given, 

And pledged in hope and fullest faith sincere, 

Nor would I jest when such fond hearts are riven. 

I only mean that love ('tis pretty clear) 

When 't rises without hope is merely leaven, 

And that boys suffering 'neath the lash of Cupid, 

Are sometimes even more than sad; they're stupid. 



XXXI. 

At last, Aurora saw him : she had seen 

Him oft when scarcely turning from her book 

She bowed, and then as he had never been, 
Resum'd her study. Now, his alter' d look 

She mark'd, and troubled eye once so serene, 

And trembling limbs which Love's wild fever shook : 

— His faint and melancholy smile that shone 

So seldom but so beautiful was gone. 



DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 



XXXII. 



She look'd and iook'd again : She could not turn, 
And yet she tried, her eyes or thoughts away ; 

And, as it were from pity, strove to learn 
The cause of all his ill, and did essay 

(While passion in her heart began to burn) 
To soothe his sadness, and to make him gay 

Would smile and talk of Love, or livelier matter : 

A simpleton ! as if 'twould make him fatter. 



XXXIII. 

But sorrow never lasts; he must have died, 
Had he not some way sought and found relief, 

For, howsoe'er we try the fact to hide, 
Love is but meagre diet sauced with grief; 

*Tis feasting too much like the Barmecide, 
Who thought to pass orf his invisible beef, 

Kid, nuts, et cetera on his guest, and so 

Got his ears box'd for lying, as we know. 



150 DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 



XXXIV. 

Diego, when he found all. hope was gone, 
Determin'd like a prudent man to fly; 

At first he tore his hair (it was his own) 
But, then, his mother— she began to cry, 

And asked him, would he leave her all alone 

(She who had watch'd and lov'd him long) to die, 

And her gray hairs to the grave with sorrow bring ? 

He said ' he could not think of such a thing/ 



XXXV. 

He said * Dear Mother, on my honour (not 
' In its new meaning) from Madrid I'll go, 

1 And if I think more of her I'll be shot.' 
Yet, as he spoke, a settled look of woe 

Declared she never could be quite forgot 

Whom in his young heart he had worshipp'd so; 

And the mute eloquence of his sickly smile 

Told all his thoughts, for grief doth not beguile. 



DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 



XXXVI. 



The knave (it is his study) and the fool 

(For he has glimpses) and the madmen may 

Deceive ; they do by accident or rule, 

And keep their look of cunning from the day: 

But grief is lesson'd in an honest school, 
And o'er the face spreads out, in sad array, 

Its pallid colours or its hectic flush • 

It ought to put the others to the blush. 



XXXVII. 

Well — one day, when king Phoebus in the East 
Had lifted his round head from off his pillow, 

And frighten'd from their slumbers man and beast, 
And turn'd to clear quicksilver every billow, 

The Don Diego, from Love's toil released, 

With ducats prim'd and head ycrown'd with willow, 

Stepp'd in his heavy coach with heavier sigh, 

Pull'd up the blinds and bade the drivers ' fly/ 



DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 



XXXVIIL 



They travell'd (our sad hero and his mother,) 
From great Madrid, thro' old and new Castile, 

Stopp'd at one town and rattled thro' another, 
Eat fish and fowl and flesh, (excepting veal :) 

Meanwhile he took it in his head he'd smother 
Cupid ; he tried, and soon began to feel 

That as the boy grew quiet, he grew merry. 

(He smother'd him with Port and sometimes Sherry.) 



XXXIX. 

Then 'round his mother he would twine his arms 
Gently, and kiss and call her his Aurelia, 

And gaze and sigh ' inimitable charms !' 

And then ' what ruby lips ! until 'twas really a 

Joke, for altho' it fill'd her with alarms 

To see him rave and take his glass thus freely, a 

Bystander must have laugh'd to see a woman 

Of fifty kiss'd: in Spain 'tis quite uncommon. 



DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 



XL. 



Well, this went on: he found that wine was better 
Than thought, while thought ran cankering thro' his 

And so he talk'd of other things, and let her [breast, 
Sweet name sometimes ('Divine Aurelia') rest: 

To finish, he sat down and wrote a letter, 

In which he said that — ' all was for the best — 

1 That love might grow to folly — that his mother 

' Had but one child, and might not have another.' 



XLI. 

: That filial duty was a noble thing : 

' That he must live tho' 'gainst his inclination, 
: For tho' he once resolv'd, he said, to fling 

' Himself into the sea, as an oblation 
: To Cupid, yet, as love had lost its sting, 

1 He'd take a dip merely for recreation : 
1 And then he added he should go to Cadiz, 
' To see the place, and how he lik'd the ladies.' 



DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 



XLII. 



The letter ended with — I quite forget 

The actual words, but with some short apology, 

About his lungs, he said he ow'd a debt 

To nature, and— pshaw ! tho' I've been to college I 

Am in the Doctors' language stupid yet, 
And often blunder in my phraseology ; 

No matter, he was sick he did declare, 

And wanted change of scene and country air. 



XLIIL 

And then he rambled thro' his native land, 
And by her rivers wide and silver rills 

Running thro' cork and beechen forests, and 
Breath'd the brave air of those immortal hills, 

Which like an altar or memorial stand 
Of patriot spirits, whose achievement fills 

Story and song: for, once, the Spanish name 

Was noble and identified with fame. 



DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 155 



XLIV. 



Now — but I'm quite a shallow politician, 
And we've enough of politics in prose, 

And so to men of talent and condition 

I leave the task to plead the Spanish woes; 

What I should say might be mere repetition, 
And bring the theme no nearer to its close, 

So I'll e'en leave the wrongs of Spain to time; 

Besides, the thing's too serious for this rhyme. 



XLV. 

Diego pass'd Cordova, gay Sevilla, 

(Seville) and saw some mighty pleasant sights, 
Saw the Fandango and the Sequidilla 

And new Bolero danc'd on summer nights, 
And got at last to Cadiz, which is still a 

Right noble city, as Lord Byron writes. 
N.B. The dances I have nam'd are national, 
And like all others tolerably irrational. 



DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 



XLVI, 



Yet, I remember some half pleasant days 
When I did love a common country dance, 

Ere peace and fashion had conspired to raise 
Quadrilles to note in England as in France; 

I came in then for some small share of praise, 
But now, I dread (I own't) a woman's glance, 

These vile Quadrilles do so perplex one's feet 

With windings, — like the labyrinth of Crete. 



XLVII. 

Four girls stand up, and beside each a beau 
Of figure, stiffen'd upwards from the hip, 

(Loose as his morals downwards) points his toe 
Prepar'd thro' many a puzzling maze to slip, 

s Poule'— ' Moulinet' — i Balancez' — ' Dos a dos* 
(Wherein the pretty damsels seem to dip 

And rise and fall just like the unquiet ocean,) 

And other moods of which I have no notion. 



DIEGO DE MONT1LLA. 



XLVIII. 



He stayed some time at Cadiz ; tho' he hated 
He vow'd, the shocking gallantries which there 

Some — any men may have 'till they are sated; 
Yet look'd he sometimes at the sweeping hair 

(Until in truth his choler had abated) 

That bound the foreheads of the Spanish fair, 

And sunn'd him often 'neath a warm full eye, 

And wish'd — but this was seldom, by the bye, 



XLIX. 

He wish'd at times to meet Aurelia's look 
Divine, and her right royal figure, graced 

With beauty intellectual, (like a book 

Well bound and written in the finest taste, 

Whose noble meaning no one e'er mistook,) 
Her white arm, and her undulating waist, 

Her foot like Atalanta's, when she ran 

And lost the race (a woman should) to man. 



DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 



But in his lonely moments he would dream 
Of young Aurora, and would tremble lest 

Aught should befal the girl, and then a gleam 
Of the sad truth would come and break his rest, 

And from his pillow he would rise and scream: 
This was a sort of night-mare, at the best, 

For he at Cadiz had forgot his diet, 

And raked and drank instead of being quiet. 



LL 

He thought of her so young, and oh ! so pale, 
And like a lily which the storms have bent 

Unto the dust : then would he swear and rail 
That 'twas impossible and never meant 

That girls should die for love ; an idle tale, ' 
And by some moody imp of slumber sent 

To teaze him, for the Rosicrucian creed 

Is understood in Spain by all—who read. 



DIEGO DE MOKTILLA. 



LII. 



Whate'er it was — presentiment (which is 

A sort of silent prophecy, some say, 
In lottery luck, and love, and death, and bliss,) 

Or not, he could not drive the thought away ; 
Then — 'twas a passing fancy — were she his, 

How gently would he soothe her dying day — 
He swore she should not die — (when folks are amorous 
They're frequently absurd, as well as clamorous.) 



LIIL 

When once his Spanish head had got this notion,, 
It stuck upon his brain just like birdlime, 

And cur'd him without either pill or potion, 
Bleeding or balm in no (or little) time ; 

Then would he wander on that deep blue ocean, 
Dreaming of her, and string some idle rhyme, 

And every stanza (none are known to fame) 

Did finish somehow with Aurora's name, 



DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 



LIV. 



And often to a grotto did he hie 

Which in a lone and distant forest stood, 

Just like a wood-nymph's haunt; and he would lie 
Beneath the cover of its arch so rude, 

For there when the August sun had mounted high, 
And all was silent but the stock-dove's brood, 

The whispering zephyr sometimes 'rose unseen, 

And kissed the leaves and boughs of tender green. 



LV. 

And every shrub that fond wind flatter'd cast 
Back a perfuming sigh, and rustling roll'd 

Its virgin branches 'till they mov'd at last 
The neighbour tree, and the great forest old 

Did homage to the zephyr as he past : 
And gently to and fro' the fruits of gold 

Swayed in the air, and scarcely with a sound 

The beeches shook their dark nuts to the ground. 



DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 



LVI. 



Before the entrance of that grotto flow'd 
A quiet streamlet, cool and never dull, 

Wherein the many-colour' d pebbles glow'd, 
And sparkled thro' its water beautiful, 

And thereon the shy wild-fowl often rode, 
And on its grassy margin you might cull 

Flowers and healing plants : a hermit spot 

And, once seen, never to be quite forgot. 



LVII. 

Our lover, Don Diego de Montilla, 

In moody humour pass'd his time at Cadiz, 

Drove out to Arcos, or perhaps Sevilla, 

Saint Lucar — Trafalgar (which I'm afraid is 

Not now in fashion) — danced the Sequidilla, 
Sometimes with castanets to please the ladies, 

Ate, drank, and sail'd upon the dark blue waters, 

Where mothers begg'd he'd take (for health) their 
daughters. 



DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 



LVIII. 

They used to say ' my poor Theresa's grown 

' Lately quite pale and grave, poor dear ; and she 

1 Has lost all appetite ' — and then they'd moan 
And wipe their eyes, where tears were sure to be. 

And leave their daughters with the Don, alone, 
To be cur'd by sea-air — and gallantry. 

The Don was satisfied and never gazed 

Or talkM of love: the girls were quite amazM. 



LIX. 

They look'd and sigh'd, as girls can look and sigh 
When they want husbands, or when gossips tell 

That they shall have a husband six feet high, 
(Tho' five feet nine or ten might do as well) 

With curly hair, Greek nose, and sweet black eye, 
And other things on which I cannot dwell : 

'Twas useless : he was puzzling o'er some rhyme, 

Or thinking of Aurora all the time. 



DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 



LX. 



All, poor Aurora! — she is gone where never 
Hate, passion, envy, grief can touch her more ; 

And with her love, beside that famed river 
That lashes with its waves the haunted shore, 

(Class'd with those radiant spirits who did ever- 
Act nobly here, until — the play was o'er,) 

She wanders in her long probation, 'till 

Death shall decay and Sin, and Time be still. 



LXI. 

She faded like the soft and summer light 
That mingles gently with the darkness, and 

Seems woo'd not conquer' d by the coming night, 
Meeting his dim embrace but not command, 

Until it sinks and vanishes, and the sight 
On mockeries of the past alone is strain'd. 

Thus Jove, drawn out in all Corregio's charms, 

Wraps the sweet Io in his shadowy arms. 



DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 



LXII. 



Alas ! she was so young — but Death has no 
Compassion on the young more than the old, 

She wore a patient look, but free from woe 
Unto the last, ('tis thus the story's told;) 

She never look'd reproachful — peevish, tho' 
Her lady sister would not seldom scold, 

Because the girl had fancied her old lover 

For none could any other cause discover. 



LXIII. 

O, melancholy Love ! amidst thy fears 

Thy darkness, thy despair, there runs a vein 

Of pleasure, like a smile 'midst many tears, — 
The pride of sorrow that will not complain — 

The exultation that in after years 

The lovM one will discover — and in vain, 

How much the heart silently in its cell 

Did suffer till it broke, yet nothing tell. 



DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 



LXIV. 



Else — wherefore else doth lovely woman keep 
Lock'd in her heart of hearts, from every gaze 

Hidden, her struggling passion — wherefore weep 
In grief that never while it flows allays 

Those tumults in the bosom buried deep, 

And robs her bright eyes of their natural rays. 

Creation's sweetest riddle ! — yet, remain 

Just as thou art ; man's only worthy gain. 



LXV. 

And thou, poor Spanish maid, ah ! what hadst thou 
Done to the archer blind that he should dart 

His cruel shafts 'till thou wast forced to bow 
In bitter anguish, aye, endure the smart 

The more because thou wor'st a smiling brow 
While the dark arrow canker'd at thy heart ? 

Yet jeer her not : if 'twere a folly, she 

Hath paid (how firmly paid) Love's penalty. 



DIEGO DE MGNTILLA. 



LXVI. 



Oft would she sit and look upon the sky, 
When rich clouds in the golden sun-set lay 

Basking, and loved to hear the soft winds sigh 
That come like music at the close of day 

Trembling amongst the orange blooms, and die 
As 'twere from very sweetness. She was gay, 

Meekly and calmly gay, and then her gaze 

Was brighter than belongs to dying days. 



LXVII. 

And on her young thin cheek a vivid flush, 
A clear transparent colour sate awhile : 

'Twas like, a bard would say, the morning's blush, 
And 'round her mouth there played a gentle smile, 

Which tho' at first it might your terrors hush, 
It could not, tho' it strove, at last beguile ; 

And her hand shook, and then 'rose the blue vein 

Branching about in all its windings plain. 



DIEGO DE MONTI LLA. 



LXVIII. 



The girl was dying. Youth and beauty — all 
Men love or women boast of was decaying, 

And one by one life's finest powers did fall 

Before the touch of death, who seem'd delaying, 

As tho' he'd not the heart at once to call 
The maiden to his home. At last, arraying 

Himself in softest guise, he came : she sighed 

And, smiling as tho' her lover whisper'd, died. 



LXIX. 

Diego — tho* it seem as he could change 
From love to love at pleasure— be it said 

Unto his honour, he did never range 

Again : I should have written that he fled 

To her (some people thought this wondrous strange) 
At the first news of danger. — She was dead. 

One silly woman said her heart was broke.— 

He look'd and listen'd, but he never spoke. 



DIEGO DE MONT1LLA. 



LXX. 



He saw her where she lay in silent state, 
Cold and as white as marble : and her eye, 

Whereon such bright and beaming beauty sate, 
Was — after the fashion of mortality, 

Closed up for ever; ev'n the smiles which late 

None could withstand, were gone; and there did lie 

(For he had drawn aside the shrouding veil,) 

By her a helpless hand, waxen and pale. 



LXXI. 

Diego stood beside the coffin lid 

And gazed awhile upon her: then he bent 

And kiss'd her, and did — 'twas grief's folly, bid 
Her wait awhile for him, for that he meant 

To follow quickly : then his face he hid, 
And 'gainst the margin of the coffin leant, 

In mute and idle anguish : not a breath 

Or sound was heard. He was alone, with Death. 



DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 



LXXII. 



At last, they drew him, like a child, away; 

And spoke in soothing sorrow of the dead, 
Placing her sweet acts out in kind array, 

And mourn'd that one so gracious should have fled 
As 'twere before her time ; tho' she would say, 

Poor girl, (and often to that talk she led,) 
That to die early was a happy lot, 
And, cheering, said she should be ' soon forgot.' 



LXXIII. * 

She left one letter for her love : they gave 
The feeble scrawl into his hand, and told 

How when she found that medicine could not save 
And love had come too late, she grew more bold, 

And bade, when she was quiet in her grave, 

(I think the phrase was ' when her hand was cold/) 

That they should give that letter to the Lord 

Diego, her first love ; or some such word. 



DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 



LXXIV. 



None heard the sad contents ; he read it thro' 
And thro', and wept and pondered on each page. 

At last, a gentle melancholy grew, 

And touch' d, like sorrow at its second stage, 

His eye with langour, and contriv'd to strew 
His hair with silver ere his middle age : 

But for the fiery passion which alone 

Had stamped his youth with folly, — it was gone. 



* LXXV. 

Some years he liv'd : he liv'd in solitude, 
And scarcely quitted his ancestral home, 

Tho' many a friend and many a lady woo'd 
Of birth and beauty, yet he would not roam 

Beyond the neighbouring hamlet's church-yard rude ; 
And there the stranger still, on one low tomb, 

May read 'Aurora;' whether the name he drew 

From mere conceit of grief or not, none knew. 



DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 



LXXVI. 



P'rhaps 'twas a mere memorial of the past : 
Such Love and Sorrow fashion, and deceive 

Themselves with words, until they grow at last 
Content with mocks alone, and cease to grieve: 

Such madness in its wiser mood will cast, 
Making its fond credulity believe 

Things unsubstantial. 'Twas — no matter what — 

Something to hallow that lone burial spot. 



LXXVII. 

He grew familiar with the bird ; the brute 
Knew well its benefactor, and he'd feed 

And make acquaintance with the fishes mute, 
And, like the Thracian Shepherd as we read, 

Drew, with the music of his stringed lute, 
Behind him winged things, and many a tread 

And tramp of animal : and in his hall 

He was a Lord indeed, belov'd by all. 



DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 



LXXVIII. 



In a high solitary turret where 

None were admitted would he muse, when first 
The young day broke, perhaps because he there 

Had in his early infancy been nurs'd, 
Or that he felt more pure the morning air, 

Or lovM to see the great Apollo burst 
From out his cloudy bondage, and the night 
Hurry away before the conquering light. 



LXXIX. 

But oftener to a gentle lake that lay 
Cradled within a forest's bosom, he 

Would, shunning kind reproaches, steal away, 
And, when the inland breeze was fresh and free, 

There would he loiter all the livelong day, 
Tossing upon the waters listlessly. 

The swallow dash'd beside him, and the deer 

Drank by his boat and eyed him without fear. 



DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 



LXXX. 



It was a soothing place : the summer hours 
Pass'd there in quiet beauty, and at night 

The moon ran searching thro* the woodbine bowers, 
And shook o'er all the leaves her kisses bright, 

O'er lemon blossoms and faint myrtle flowers, 
And there the west wind often took his flight 

When heaven's clear eye was closing, while above 

Pale Hesper 'rose, the evening light of love. 



LXXXL 

How sweet it is to see that courier star 

(Which like the spirit of the twilight shines) 

Come stealing up the broad blue heaven afar, 
Silvering the dark tops of the distant pines, 

Until his mistress in her brighter car 

Enters the sky, and then his light declines: 

But sweetest when in lonely spots we see 

The gentle, watchful, amorous deity. 



DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 



LXXXII. 



He comes more lovely than the Hours : his look 
Sheds calm refreshing light, and eyes that burn 

With glancing at the sun's so radiant book, 
Unto his softer page with pleasure turn : 

'Tis like the murmur of some shaded brook, 
Or the soft welling of a Naiad's urn, 

After the sounding of the vast sea-waves. 

'Tis after jealous fears the faith that saves. 



LXXXIIL 

Then bashful boys stammer their faint fond vows ; 

Then like a whisper music seems to float 
Around us : then from out the thicket boughs 

Cometh the nightingale's so tender note, 
And then the young girl listens, and allows 

(Mov'd by the witching of the sweet bird's throat) 
To passion its first kiss : — but of these things 
He thought not in his moody wanderings. 



DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 



LXXXIV. 

'Twas solitude he lov'd where'er he strayed, 
No danger daunted and no pastime drew, 

And ever on that fair heart-broken maid 
(Aurora) who unto the angels flew 

Away so early, with grief unallayed 

He thought, and in the sky's eternal blue 

Would look for shapes, 'till at times before him she 

'Rose like a beautiful reality. 



LXXXV. 

—But he hath passed away, and there remains 
Scarcely the shadow of his name : the sun, 

The soft breeze, and the fierce autumnal rains 
Fall now alike upon him : he hath done 

With Life and cast away its heavy chains, 
And in his place another spirit may run 

Its course (thus live, love, languish and thus die,) 

Thro' every maze of dim mortality. 



DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 



LXXXVI. 



One day he came not at his usual hour, 
(He had long been declining) and his old 

Kind mother sought him in his lonely tower, 
And there she found him lying, pale and cold : 

Her son was dead, and love had lost his power; 
And then she felt that all her days were told. 

She laid him in his grave, and when she died 

A stranger buried her by Diego's side. 



THE END. 



NOTES. 

"Your husband's heart for some more quiet grave." — 
p. 16. 

I have ventured to substitute the heart for the head of the 
lover. The latter appeared to be a ghastly object to preserve, 
though perhaps the fof mer may be the more common-place 
thing of the two. 



" That spirit is never idle that doth 'waken." — p. 18. 

This paragraph is obscure. It was written to repel an 
assertion (made in a poem to which I cannot recur) that 
the fall of an avalanche spoke " Doubt and Death." The 
reader can, it' he pleases, pass it over altogether. 



Sonnet on Spring. — p. 124. 

This and the three following sonnets were given to 
Messrs. Ollier, and have already appeared in " The 
Literary Pocket Book for 1820." 



/ 



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